


Chrysalids Revisited

by UncleAxel



Category: The Chrysalids - John Wyndham
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 92,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncleAxel/pseuds/UncleAxel
Summary: John Wyndham'sThe Chrysalidsis generally held to be his best work - right up to the penultimate chapter!  But the ending leaves a lot to be desired, with all sorts of loose ends.  I've tried to remedy that here.Instead of following David and his companions to 'Sealand', I start by picking up Michael from his forlorn position, 'abandoned on the tarmac' so to speak.  What does he do next?  Does he meet up with Rachel, and do they try to make their way to 'Sealand' by a different route? ("The world is round, so there must be another way")And what of Mark?  And Sally?  And Katherine?  And Sophie?  Are they really dead?  Is David a reliable witness of the apocalypticdénouementin the Fringes?  Is the 'Sealand Woman' really to be trusted?  Did the Sealanders' flying machine really look like some sort of helicopter?Read on to find out!You're in for plenty of surprises, the first one in the very first chapter.Also some romantic elements - for devotees!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> _[editing notes]  
>  3 January 2021. Chapters 22, 27 minor mods. Chapter 28 major mods. Chapters 29-34 added.  
> 12 January 2021. Chapters 35-39 added. No changes to earlier chapters.  
> 20 January 2021. Chapters 40-42 added.  
> 25 February 2021. Chapters 43-46 added. Amendments to chapters 36ff._

## Preface

My idea was to write a continuation of John Wyndham’s _The Chrysalids_ in a narrative style similar to that of the author, whilst trying to keep to his attention to detail and episodic events. A sort of ‘picaresque’ adventure so to speak. But I've also tried to develop the main players’ characters a bit more.

I chose to follow the further adventures of Michael and Rachel, drawing on Michael’s rather rash promise at the end of the original novel: _“The world is round, so there must be another way to get there [‘Sealand’]”_. We shall see whether he and Rachel pursue this optimistic endeavour, and with what result.

As you will see, I’ve also ‘brought back to life’ Sophie, in a plausible and consistent sequel to Wyndham’s closing chapters. David’s trustworthiness as a narrator is brought into question but not entirely contradicted. I have chosen not to use first-person narrative: this gives me more flexibility.

There is still some way to go; this story is nowhere near finished.

I acknowledge, with thanks, having adopted the suggestion from another contributor (on FF), _Imaginos1892_ , to replace the Sealanders' 'helicopter' with a more plausible airship, though it's only referred to briefly in my version.

## PART 1

## Chapter 1

### Aftermath

Michael stood stock-still in the middle of the clearing, watching the flying machine gather speed and dwindle in the sky until it vanished behind the clouds.

On board were his friends David and Rosalind, and David’s young sister Petra, who, he knew, were being whisked to safety far far away. The ‘Sealand woman’ (she had said “Zealand”—perhaps that was the correct name for her country?) had appeared on the scene, _dea ex machina-_ like, in the nick of time—not merely to rescue the fugitives, but also to put an end, once and for all, to the pitched battle raging between the Fringes people and the Waknuk raiding party.

 _How_ she had achieved that last result, however—the cold, cruel, utterly ruthless weapon she had employed—he had tried to blank that vision out of his mind. Not only that the mere thoughts filled him with stark horror, but he had, understandably, wanted to conceal his emotions about the whole scene from his friends until they were out of range of his thought-shapes—especially from Petra, who was surely too young to fully understand the implications. At least, he hoped she was too young, because she would never be out of range.

At present, he could sense Petra’s thought-shapes as she babbled to her companions. Yes: she seemed unperturbed. All her thoughts were about the thrill of flying, and about the promise of a fantastic new land to discover. David’s and Rosalind’s thoughts, on the other hand, were already too faint to be discerned, and would soon be completely out of range. Michael thought to himself: that’s all for the best. There were things beginning to surface in his mind once more, that he could no longer suppress—that he did not wish to share. Possibly David and Rosalind wouldn’t have wanted to share their feelings either.

What the Zealand woman (she had never given a name) and her crew had done, that terrible and unanswerable death-blow, was merely to scatter thin sticky white threads all over the clearing. Harmless enough, one might have thought. But these threads were _very_ sticky—impossibly strong and sticky—wherever they had touched a human being or an animal, they had trapped them in a web from which, no matter how much force they exerted, they could not escape—a web in which they could only struggle, and eventually succumb to asphyxiation. As far as he could see, no-one had survived this slaughter. Nor had the horses. No-one but he—and he was unhurt. The Zealand woman had sprayed him with some kind of solvent to dissolve the sticky threads, saving his life.

The corpses lying around the clearing were already becoming distorted and unrecognisable—but he knew who they were. He had calmly watched them die in the heat of battle, but now the battle was over and he could reflect. Many of them were his friends...

Already feeling sick, he urgently needed to get away from the clearing and the carnage. As he stumbled his way between the corpses, being careful to avoid the white threads (‘plastic’ was the word the Zealand woman had used to describe them, but the word meant nothing to him), he noticed a slight movement out of the corner of his eye.

A young woman who had lain, seemingly dead, at the edge of the clearing, just out of range of the sticky threads. A woman whom he recognised, even though he had never met her. A woman who had played a part in saving his companions’ lives—he did not need to see her feet to know who she was...

Sophie! She was still alive!

In spite of the nausea which was almost consuming him, and the danger of lingering too long in this place, Michael made up his mind instantly. Of all the Fringes people, he could not abandon this woman. He made his way towards her. As he did so, he passed the body of her lover Gordon—the ‘spider-man’ David had called him—who was certainly dead, enveloped in the threads. Two arrows had struck Sophie. One had certainly pierced her arm, but the other had scarcely grazed her. David had, wrongly, reported that the second arrow had caught her in the neck and killed her outright—but no: it had lodged in the shoulder and the wound did not look too severe. The arrow had struck on her shoulder blade and not penetrated too deeply, but the shock had knocked her unconscious. There was a good chance that both wounds would heal.

Michael took the decision to pluck out the arrows straight away, while Sophie was still semi-comatose. As he did so, as gently as possible, Sophie groaned but did not call out. The arm wound bled freely: Michael tore up his shirt to fashion a makeshift bandage. Blood quickly soaked through the first bandage, so he hastily took it off and put on a second one. To his relief the bleeding seemed to have now been stemmed. He fashioned a rude sling for her. Then he gently peeled off her bodice, and, feeling rather embarrassed, trying not to look at her breasts, he carefully wrapped the remainder of his shirt around her shoulder and under her armpit.

Then he hastily replaced her bodice, which although torn and bloodstained was still wearable, and carefully lifted her—she was no great weight—and carried her across the clearing, through the cleft and out to the river bank. There he laid her carefully on the ground. He turned away from her, moved forward a few paces, and vomited.

It took him many minutes to recover himself.

The river bank seemed as devoid of life as the camp. But he could see no bodies lying on this side of the cliff. He took a deep draught of water from the river, then filled his water-bottle and turned to Sophie once more. She was now conscious, and surprisingly well-composed in spite of the pain she must have been in. He gave her a drink of water. She looked at him, puzzled.

“I’m Michael. I’m a friend of David and Rosalind’s...”

She was instantly alert—and alarmed. “David! David—and Rosalind—and Petra! _What’s happened to them_?”

“They’re safe. They’re now far away from here. That’s all I can tell you for now.”

“You’re another of those people? The ones who can ‘talk’ with their thoughts?”

“Yes I am.”

“So you’re one of them! Them—who brought the norms to this place to murder my people! Why the hell should I trust you?” She tried to lift herself, but was still too weak.

“You saved the lives of my friends. I owe you everything for that. And you were David’s friend. That makes you my friend. Is that enough?”

Sophie lifted herself on her good arm, and thought about it for a long time. “They murdered him. Gordon. He’s dead, isn’t he...” she finally said.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m afraid he is. I know about Gordon. Gordon and you.”

She seemed to accept that. “So where are the rest of my people?” She became suddenly agitated. She attempted to sit up, and stared at the cleft leading back into the clearing and the camp—then she weakly sank back to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” said Michael, quickly. “You’re still too weak. And you can’t go back there. You really can’t.”

“Why not? What about my people? Did your people—your norms—kill them all?”

“I can’t explain. Not now. Please understand. But it’s too dangerous for you to go back there. If you stay with me, I can take you to somewhere where you can rest—where you can get food and drink—somewhere where you can live, even. Somewhere away from the Fringes.”

“But what about—?” She pointed to her bare feet. “How can I possibly live anywhere but the Fringes—like this?”

Years earlier, when Sophie was a mere child, she and David had met by chance. Michael knew the story. David—then also only a child—had discovered by accident that she had six toes on each foot. Her parents had been carefully concealing this fact. In the district where they lived, where anyone with a genetic mutation was persecuted: sterilised and ruthlessly cast out to fend for themselves in the Fringes, such knowledge was perilous. For several months David and Sophie had managed to keep the secret—but eventually they had been found out, David had been punished, and Sophie had been consigned to the Fringes. Only there could she live without being persecuted, but it was a life of abject deprivation and poverty, and with no future to look forward to.

Michael wondered if, should she be offered a chance to return to ‘civilised’ country, safely, she would leap at it.

Or she might not. She might resent being amongst ‘norms’ after they way they had dealt with her.

And he had another plan, too—but only David and Rosalind, and Rachel back at Waknuk, knew about it. He wasn’t about to share that with Sophie.

“Listen, Sophie,” he said—thinking ahead and mindful of the fact that the spiritual leader of Waknuk, the puritanical and tyrannical Joseph Strorm, David’s father, was dead. “It may be that things will have changed at Waknuk, since you were there. You may be able to lead a normal life without ever being found out. And there may be other places, less authoritarian than Waknuk. I don’t know, but it’s worth trying. Will you come with me?”

Sophie paused and considered. Did she trust Michael? He looked like a norm, but his friends had been persecuted by norms—and he too would have suffered, if he had been exposed. If only she could penetrate his thoughts, as the others could! She remembered how her mother had had some sort of ‘understanding’ with David. Perhaps she might be able to acquire some sort of this power too—maybe it was nascent in her and not yet developed. Could it come to anything? She strained her thoughts hard, wondering what one had to do to ‘project’ them—but Michael appeared not to react.

Anyway, Michael was being cagey about the happenings in the clearing, but it was clearly no use for her to try and go back there and discover for herself. Whatever had happened must have been terrible...

“You’re telling me I can’t stay here.”

“No, you can’t. I can tell you, most of the men in the posse are dead, but others may come later. And when they see the remains of the—” Michael caught himself just in time—“the battle, they’ll be wanting to kill any Fringe dwellers they come across.”

Sophie thought some more. She believed Michael’s warning, and realised that to stay in the camp meant death. What was the alternative? Perhaps the most puritanical, the most doctrinaire of the norms had been in the posse—had been killed. Those left behind might be more liberal, more forgiving. Michael had hinted that there might be a chance of a ‘normal’ life back in civilised parts. The only option, perhaps. She put a last question to Michael.

“David’s father? You know, the preacher man: the one who was the most fanatical campaigner against Mutants in the whole of Waknuk. David told me a lot about him. Was he in the posse? What became of him?”

“Yes, he was with us. He was killed.”

Sophie made her mind up. “I’ll come with you,” she finally said.

“Good,” said Michael. “I’m honoured—and delighted. We’ll have to find you some shoes, of course. Now, the first thing we need is a horse. You wait here while I go to look for one.”

With that, he turned to the river, and walked upstream until he recognised the place where they had crossed, near to the pear-shaped tree. Testing the water, he found that it was not at all deep, and he could easily wade across. Climbing to the far bank and following the path for another mile, his luck held out. There was a horse quietly grazing on the verge, while its fallen rider lay dead on his face on the path. Clearly one of his party: turning the body over, he recognised one of the Waknuk farmers. He had been killed by a sniper’s arrow fired from the forest. The horse looked unhurt and in good shape. Hoping that the sniper—one of the Fringes people, he guessed—had long since moved on, Michael caught the reins and tied the horse to a tree. Then he searched the body, stripping the shirt off it to replace his own. He could find no gun, but there was a bow and a few arrows, and some food in the horse’s saddlebags. Untying the horse, he mounted and rode quickly back to the river.

Sophie was now sitting up and seemed in better spirits. She evidently had amazingly rapid powers of recovery—a consequence of the hardships of Fringe life no doubt. Together they ate some of the food: then Michael lifted Sophie up on the horse’s back and mounted in front of her, instructing her to cling on as tightly as she could.


	2. Retreat from the Fringes

“Where are we going?” asked Sophie, after they had ridden without speaking for several miles. “To Waknuk?”

“For the moment, yes, back towards Waknuk—or at least the surrounding district. It’s dangerous for you, but less dangerous than staying back there.” He pointed back along the path. “I know the area well and it’s our best chance of getting you—and me—to somewhere really safe. And there’s something else. There’s someone back at Waknuk...”

“A girl, is it? I might have guessed!”

Michael decided to be open with her. “Yes, Sophie, a young woman. One of _us_.” He emphasised the ‘us’ so that she understood.

“Another one who can give you babies, when I can’t give _anyone_...” she said bitterly, her voice trailing off. Michael felt embarrassed, but quickly recovered himself when he saw that she was close to tears. Was she showing him some affection? Aside from Rachel’s half-concealed thoughts, nothing like this had ever happened to him. But he quickly collected himself.

“Please, Sophie, try to understand. Yes we’re all terribly sorry about what happened to you, when you first came to the Fringes. But we can’t undo that: no-one can. You must try to come to terms with it. There are women in Waknuk and the surrounding district, and Kentak too, who can’t have babies. Not because of … what happened to you. They just can’t. I learnt something about these things when I was at school. Many of them go on to lead happy and loving married lives. It’s not the best, but it’s a reason for living. Surely you can see that?”

Sophie made no reply. She was clearly unconvinced. But she held back her tears for then.

What Michael had been searching for, of course, was the place where he had last been close enough to contact Rachel by thought-shapes. With every step they were drawing closer to being in range. So far, testing every few minutes, he had drawn a blank. And it was now getting dark.

“We’ll have to rest here. And we need to keep watch. Do you think you can manage that? Can you handle a bow?” He handed her the bow and arrows without even thinking.

“Are you out of your mind? Any other time, of course I’d say I can,” replied Sophie, relieved to be offered a task that she might otherwise have fulfilled. “How do you suppose we get food in the Fringes? We’re taught to shoot almost as soon as we can walk. I think I’m a good shot—but how on earth can I use a bow like this?” pointing to her bound-up arm in a sling.

Michael apologised for his stupidity: for not having thought it through—his mind was so occupied with worries about Rachel. “Oh well, we’ll have to do the best we can,” taking back the bow and laying it on the ground. “Will you take first watch? Wake me at once if you hear or see anything.”

“All right,” said Sophie.

Michael gratefully lay down on the ground and was fast asleep in minutes. A few hours later, Sophie woke him with the report that nothing amiss had happened; not a soul had come by; and he took over the watch for what was left of the night.

The next morning, without having seen anyone, they mounted and resumed their journey.

After little over an hour, to his infinite joy, Michael was able to re-establish contact with Rachel. She too was overwhelmed and delighted, and could not conceal her feelings towards Michael. For a while they exchanged frantic love-thoughts—Michael at last realising that his feelings towards Rachel were more than just friendship and sympathy.

It took quite a while before they were able to disentangle their emotions and turn to more mundane matters.

Finally, Rachel became composed. She at once asked what had happened to him, and also what had happened to David, Rosalind, and Petra. Michael, once again, had to be cagey about this. Because they were using thought-shapes, he had to be even more careful than he had been with Sophie. He merely said that the other three were safe—they had been carried off to safety by the Sealand woman (not Sealand! “Zealand”). Of the final scene at the Fringes clearing he kept his mind closed: he tried not to even think of what he had seen there, for fear Rachel might catch his nightmarish memories.

“ _And where are you? Are you coming back?”_ asked Rachel. Michael was relieved not to have been pressed further on the scenes at the clearing. “ _Yes, I am,”_ he replied, “ _and I’m bringing someone with me. One of the Fringes people. There’s no risk. Please don’t worry.”_

That seemed to satisfy Rachel—after all she was a very clear-headed girl, and knew that Michael would never have fallen in with someone who could be a danger to them. So instead she passed on all the news about Waknuk and the surrounding area. There wasn’t much to report. No-one had yet returned from the sortie into Fringe territory, so no news had come from that direction. The farm-work was continuing as best they could manage with so many of their menfolk absent.

They resumed occasional bouts of love-talk, but it dawned on Rachel that Michael had to devote all his attention to path-finding, so she left him in peace.

Michael was suddenly aware of Sophie, behind him, having become very still, as if she were frozen. He reined in the horse and dismounted, turning to look at her. Still astride the horse, she was regarding him with a thoughtful expression.

“You were ‘talking’ to that girl, weren’t you.” Sophie used exactly the same words as she had spoken to David, only a day or two previously. “The one back in Waknuk? Talking with your thoughts. I could tell.”

“Yes, I was. Please don’t be upset about it. I needed to tell here we’re on our way.”

“I think you told her a lot more than that! But I’m not upset, not now. All right: I was a bit upset when I realised David was ‘talking’ to Rosalind even when she wasn’t there—back in the cave. But I’ve got over that. You and your friends have something I haven’t got—at least not now. But I wonder if I’m picking some thoughts up. I seemed to get some lovey-dovey thoughts coming from Rachel, besides those from you...”

Michael was astonished—and a bit embarrassed—but quickly composed himself. “Try to send me a thought of yours,” he said. And quietly to Rachel: “ _Please don’t butt in!”_

He opened his mind to full reception and strained to pick up something from Sophie. Yes there was something there: some feeling of joy at her rescue and some tender thoughts towards Michael her rescuer. But it was too incoherent to be properly described as thought-speech. After a while Sophie held up her hand.

“Yes you have something there,” said Michael, bemused. “I wonder? Did you have any of this while in the Fringes? Or before?”

“No, but my mother did. David told me that, when we first met, just after he found out about my feet, he could pick up some of her ‘worried’ thoughts quite easily. But she never knew she was making them.”

“I wonder...” Michael muttered, again, quietly to himself.

“And besides: Mother told me once that she thought David could read her mind. I thought little of it at the time. But now—all of a sudden—something’s happened to me.”

“Is it, perhaps, that being in the company of people who can do thought-shapes, sort of stimulates the latent power in others...?”

“Maybe,” replied Sophie. “But I spent a lot of time as a child in David’s company. And nothing like this happened to me back then. Of course I didn’t know everything about him in those days, and possibly his powers weren’t fully developed back then...”

Michael said nothing but re-mounted, and they continued along the path.

For several days they rode through the forest. Once or twice they had the good fortune to shoot a rabbit, but they had very few arrows, and Michael did not want to risk losing any, so they took no risks. Sophie recovered with remarkable speed: clearly the hardships of Fringe life had strengthened her physically. In a few days she was able to remove the sling, and could shoot almost as well as Michael. But still they encountered not a soul: the whole countryside seemed deserted.

And they were running low on food.

Their horse was now visibly getting very tired. For a while Michael dismounted and walked alongside. They were now out of the forest, and Michael recognised the more open country as the place where the first shots had been fired, and the great-horses had bolted into the forest.

“There’s a farm some miles further on,” Michael announced. “I remember us assembling there. The great-horses bearing David and the others, towards the Fringes, had charged through it but the farm people were unable to stop them. We arrived some time later and gathered there before pushing on into the forest. It may be that we can get help there—even a second horse perhaps. I have a little money. The people of the farm will be Wild Country folk. They won’t persecute human Deviations like the Waknuk folk do. They may not even notice. Or you could stay hidden...”


	3. An Abandoned Farm

It was late afternoon when they at last spotted a dingy old ramshackle farmhouse and some rude huts or barns, about a mile off in a little dell—scarcely enough to call the place a ‘farm’. And, ominously, there appeared to be a thin curl of smoke rising from it. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life.

“That’s the spot. You’d best wait here,” said Michael. “Although I expect the Wild Country folk to be safe, there may be Waknuk people around. Stragglers from the pursuit. Keep hidden: don’t worry—I’ll remember the spot exactly. I hope to be no more than an hour. If I do meet Waknuk men, I’ll try to head them off somehow.”

Sophie knew how to hide, of course: she’d been more or less in hiding ever since childhood. With amazing agility, considering her recent injuries which were now almost healed, she swung herself up into a large tree and nestled there, amongst the branches of the crown. No-one who didn’t know she was there could have spotted her.

Michael was as good as his word. Within the hour he was back at the tree and handing Sophie down.

“The place seems to be completely deserted—and that’s a barn on fire, practically burnt to the ground now. But the farmhouse itself appears to be untouched. I can’t account for that: there were people here when we passed by: we didn’t threaten them, and we didn’t torch anything. Perhaps a following group, less scrupulous, took exception to whatever the barn was storing: something deviational, no doubt. And maybe the people of the farm fled before them. At least we can get some rest there.”

“But what if the people return?” asked Sophie. “I mean the owners?”

“It’s highly unlikely they’ll return tonight. They’ll want to be sure the Waknuk raiders are clear of the area first. And it’ll be safer for them in daylight. Come on.”

Half an hour later they were at the farmhouse, such as it was. It was now dark outside. They tethered the horse to a nearby tree under which some grass was growing, and tried the door. It was unlocked. Inside, it was already pitch-dark, but groping around, Michael found a candle and soon had a bright light burning. They found themselves in a surprisingly clean and spacious kitchen. There was a range with a couple of copper kettles, burnished pans hanging from hooks around the walls, and several hams hung from a string over the range. In the middle was a large, rough-hewn table and some chairs.

They noticed a back door to the kitchen. Pushing that open, they found themselves in a small but cosy bedroom with two beds pushed side-by-side, and a wardrobe which they eagerly opened to reveal several sets of clothes—men’s and women’s too—on hangers. Michael was overjoyed at this discovery.

“New clothes for you at last! And shoes! You can’t go into the Waknuk district dressed like that—” for Sophie still had nothing on but the ragged skirt and blouse which she had been wearing all the way from the Fringes. The blouse without the obligatory Cross. “And I could do with some clean clothes too—”

“But surely we can’t just take them,” Sophie protested. “That’d be stealing.”

“Sophie, listen. This whole country is now in a state of war. Our duty is to save ourselves. If that means taking clothes, we’ll take clothes. I also mean to take some of that ham—we’re practically out of food. And what about your feet? You still have no shoes!”

Sophie saw the sense in that, of course. But she was also dog-tired. “I can’t possibly choose clothes in this light. Let’s wait till morning.” With that, she flung herself on one of the beds and was almost instantly fast asleep.

Michael searched around for a few minutes longer: he noticed a small back door which opened onto a yard with a well: the kitchen and the bedroom appeared to be the only rooms in the house. But Sophie was right. Best wait until morning. Lying down on the other bed, he too soon fell fast asleep.

Michael woke just as the sun was rising. He sat up and looked around him. Sophie was still fast asleep in the other bed, still in her stained and torn blouse and skirt, and very dirty. He looked at her intently. Her features coarsened of course by years of hardship and affliction in the Fringes, there was still a sort of elemental beauty about her. Her tangled black hair, her brown skin, the shape of her body, the swell of her hips.... Michael felt himself being strangely drawn to her. No! He must keep such thoughts close to his chest. Quickly he turned away.

Trying not to disturb her, he got up and tiptoed into the kitchen. Searching around, he found a loaf of bread still reasonably fresh, a sack of potatoes and another sack containing what appeared to be oats. He filled a bowl and went out to where the horse was grazing. It seemed in good spirits and well-rested, and gratefully accepted the oats as well as a bucket of water. Michael decided that they ought to rest up at the farm for the rest of the day and another night—it would do them all good. Going back into the kitchen, he searched out a bar of soap and then busied himself with lighting the range and putting two kettles on to boil. He had found a large washtub in the back yard which looked as if it could serve as a bath—they both needed one! He filled the tub from the well and was just topping-up with boiling water from the kettles, when Sophie appeared from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. As soon as she noticed the tub and felt the already-lukewarm water, she grinned at him.

“Good thinking, Michael. I’ve been dying for a nice warm bath for ages....”

Was she remembering her former life, with her parents, before they were caught?

“All right, Sophie. You go first,” said Michael, turning to go back into the bedroom.

“Don’t be silly, Michael. There’s plenty of room for us both,” and without another word, she untied the bandage that was still wrapped around her arm, stripped off her blouse and skirt, and clambered into the tub.

Michael was dumbfounded. This was all new to him: he had never seen a grown woman naked before, and only once had he seen a woman’s breasts—and that had been when he’d dressed Sophie’s shoulder wound some days before. He tried to avert his eyes from the tub, but found he could not. Sophie was still grinning at him coquettishly, and there was a hint of a vague thought-shape coming from her: involuntarily, no doubt, but a real thought-shape all the same. The meaning was indistinct, but was there a suggestion of “ _I want you”_?

Whatever her thoughts—such thoughts as he was able to read—were telling him, it was clear that Sophie sensed his uneasiness. In words, she was reassuring, although she spoke rather fast, as if she wanted to quickly get over a kind of recitation: “Come on Michael—don’t be shy—in the Fringes we do this all the time—go together to the river on washing day—most of us had only one set of clothes—we’d all strip off—men and women together—after washing clothes we’d all join in for a swim—we’re used to it.” Then after pausing for breath, “come on, get your clothes off.” Saying that, she lowered herself deeper into the tub, so that only her head and shoulders were visible.

Did Michael really believe this dubious reassurance? Or was Sophie making it up: a somewhat odd way of countering his shyness perhaps? Why was she telling him this story? He could easily have guessed some of it: certainly, considering the treatment that was meted out to human Deviations, there could be no procreative activity—probably little or no sexuality either—amongst Fringe dwellers. Maybe they were relaxed about nudity and didn’t have a taboo—unlike people from the more ‘civilised’ and puritan settings of Waknuk and similar places, where even for a woman to reveal her ‘cleavage’ was considered an outrage.

But could Sophie have any sexual feelings? Michael could now pick up Sophie’s emotions quite clearly, although they were not yet formed into articulate ‘messages’ such as the other thought-shapers could send. And her emotions told a different story. A sense of desire, of craving, of sensuality. How could that be, coming from one such as her?

Michael’s thoughts were in a turmoil, and he thought of backing away at this point, with some sort of muttered excuse. He felt a profound sense of loyalty to Rachel, although their hurriedly and openly exchanged thought-shapes had not talked of ‘love’. But his body would not let him retreat from Sophie’s temptation. He he could not resist being drawn towards the tub. If he went forward, would he be betraying Rachel forever?

Michael could not answer that question in his own mind, so he had to suppress the thought for now. He slowly peeled off his clothes. Once stripped, and cupping himself with his hands as best he could, he advanced towards the tub.

He could now see the entire Sophie once more. Certainly, washed and tidied up, he could see that she could easily become an extremely beautiful girl. Another thought was coming from her mind now: very vaguely, the message seemed to be _“I owe you everything.”_ Did everything include this?

Whether it did or not, he could no longer hold back. He slowly climbed into the bath alongside her.

Now Sophie’s manner became more urgent. “Take your hand away, silly!” she ordered. Michael could not resist. She looked down for a moment, seeing how much he wanted her now, then clamped her mouth over his and wrapped her legs around his hips...


	4. Relaxation

They were lying on one of the beds, still unclothed.

Michael’s thoughts were more or less composed again. The passion that had consumed him, in the bath and on the bed, was abated. He could look at Sophie without embarrassment—look at her as a woman rather than as a lover, and realise how much of an improvement had come over her. Scrubbed clean of dirt, with her hair combed, she might not be Labrador’s—or even the world’s—most glamorous beauty, but her underlying charm was certainly there. But there was something still bothering him. He did not know how to put it.

“Sophie,” he said. “When you first went to the Fringes, they—well they did ‘something’, didn’t they? So how...?” He could not find the words to put the question.

Sophie said nothing for a long time. She lay on her back, but Michael noticed tears in her eyes. Almost at once he regretted asking the question. But he could think of nothing else to say...

Eventually, Sophie spoke. She said, quietly, “I’ll explain. You didn’t expect me to be able to do this, I suppose. Nor did most of the Fringes people. With good reason. Most of the Fringes men—all those that had the ‘treatment’—can’t do it at all. But a few, like Gordon, escaped being emasculated. And norm men sometimes ventured into the Fringes, looking for—well you can guess! Gordon was the man I slept with most of the time, but he wasn’t my first. But most of the men—those that could, I mean—left me alone. They assumed.....”

Sophie’s tears flowed freely now, and she paused.

“I think it’s because of the women,” she continued after composing herself a bit. “You understand, Michael, that nearly all the Fringes women were ‘treated’ in infancy, after being taken from their parents soon after birth. I don’t know exactly what was done to them—no-one ever explained it to me. But anyway, nearly all of them flatly refused to ever lie with a man. Fought them off, even. Not that many men had any urge to....

“But I....”

“Please go on,” said Michael.

“Michael. I trust you. These are things I thought I’d never want to talk about—not ever again. But now I feel I must talk about them—to you.

“When my parents and me were—captured, we were no longer in Waknuk district, but many miles away. The village to where we were taken, they didn’t have anyone—any doctor or nurse—who could do—who could do— _that_. What they do to babies. It appeared that the nearest place where they ‘prepared’ people like us for the Fringes, was Kentak.

“So we were taken to Kentak. There, it gets a bit hazy, but I believe that even the doctors in Kentak were only experienced with small babies. They had never operated on a ten-year-old girl. Anyway, the next I can remember, I was put in a coach for the long journey to Rigo. All alone.

“My parents said goodbye to me in Kentak. I must have cried piteously, but they tried to reassure me—as best they could, since they were under guard. They told me, they would be sent to prison, but as soon as they got out they would come and find me. Well—that was years ago, and I haven’t heard from them since, but they may still be alive. Of course I miss them—but I’m glad they never got to see me as I was—living back _there_...

“Anyway, in Rigo, I was taken to see a doctor. An awfully nice doctor, a woman, she was quite kind to me actually. She said that, although she didn’t agree with the policy, she had to do what she had to do: it was the Law. But she’d try to make it as painless as she could. The treatment for a girl of my age would be different from the baby treatment. Less damaging.

“It didn’t hurt much. I think she gave me something to drink that deadened the pain. After a day or two, I was able to get up. She told me, I’d never have children, and I’d never have the monthly bleeding. That was enough to satisfy the Law. But I would still be able to sleep with a man—to have a love life—when I grew up—if I wanted to. She spoke to me as if I were a grown-up already, and I didn’t, of course, understand all she told me at the time, but I do now...

“Then I came to the Fringes. The rest you know.”

Sophie turned towards Michael and wrapped herself around him once more. Michael could think of nothing to say. But he thought he understood.

It was almost midday now, and no-one had been seen—not the owners of the farm, nor anyone from Waknuk or other ‘civilised’ parts. Michael thought he had guessed correctly, that they would be safe there for another night. Further than that, he was not prepared to risk.

They had now dressed themselves in more ‘decent’ clothes. Sophie had found a dark green dress decorated with the Cross that fitted her fairly well; also a pair of moccasins—most important!—as well as some underwear and a spare dress. Michael was arrayed in a farm-worker’s outfit and could have passed for a farm-hand anywhere. They had also found some apples and another bow with a few arrows. Along with the ham and the potatoes, they were able to make a hearty meal for the first time in days—weeks even.

Michael had contacted Rachel late in the morning, being careful to focus his mind on mundane matters: explaining where they were and that he’d been too tired to communicate the night before. She seemed to accept that. He also said that they would take longer to reach her than originally planned. About Sophie, he did his best to close his mind completely.

Had anything happened since their last contact? he asked. Yes, she replied, a few men from the raiding parties had limped into Waknuk the day before. Some were wounded; all were in an emaciated state and gave very confused reports, clearly traumatised by some terrible event that they had witnessed. Rachel recalled that Michael had not wanted to tell her much, either, and she appreciated that. The stories given by the men were fragmentary and contradicted one another, but a common theme appeared to refer to ‘giant spiders’ having emerged from the forest and slaughtered everyone in sight. One man even claimed to have seen one of these monster creatures actually flying through the air. Rachel thought this was too fantastic: although deviational beasts were common enough, in civilised country as well as the Fringes, and many were ferocious and dangerous, none of them had in the least evolved to the gigantic proportions which this account would seem to suggest. And not one of these deviants had ever mastered the art of flying. Birds could fly, and birds were small. That was the end of it.

Michael thought, this was a good story to put across: a good ‘cover’ for what had actually happened, and he explained that there was some truth in the men’s account, while being careful to avoid specifics. It was a plausible theme: that spiders or similar creatures had evolved from mutations in the Fringes. The last thing he wanted to do was to give any hint of the Zealanders’ superhuman powers of mass slaughter. He had not told all to Sophie, and he was not sure if he wanted to tell Rachel even once they were face-to-face.

But Rachel already knew that David, Rosalind and Petra had escaped in some sort of ‘flying machine’. He would have to be more specific about that. She’d probably have guessed that that was what the terrified man had mistaken for a ‘flying spider’. Well, he had time to think about it. And about other things!

Michael was busy occupying himself with mundane tasks around the farm, chiefly to make themselves ready for their onward journey. He tried not to focus his mind on what had happened that morning, but he could not get away from the fact: what he had experienced was the most ecstatic, the most pleasurable feeling in his whole life. And he knew that Sophie had found pleasure in it too: he did not need her fragmentary thought-shapes to know that.

But he still wanted to get back to Rachel as soon as possible. How things would turn out, when they did meet, he could not fathom—but they had to meet.

Meanwhile, he had searched around the surrounding countryside, up to a mile or more in each direction, mainly in the hope of finding another horse. He had no luck. The whole countryside seemed deserted, and there were no other farms within reach. However, he did make an important discovery in the other barn: the one that had not been burnt down. In a corner was a broken-down light dog-cart and some harness.

Could their horse be harnessed to this cart, he wondered. He did not know whether the horse would accept this, but they had no other choice. With the extra clothes and food which they had gathered up, they were obviously far too big a burden for the horse to carry. How he wished for one of Angus Morton’s great-horses—the 26-hand beasts which had carried David and his companions toward the Fringes! But those animals were lost to them. However, if they could persuade their horse to draw this cart, they might get to Waknuk in just a few more days...

Michael examined the cart, and discovered that its axle was broken. He was a good handyman, and there were pieces of timber and some tools lying about in the barn. He set to and did his best to repair the cart: after a couple of hours’ work he decided that it would serve, though he would not trust it on a long journey. Perhaps it could get them as far as Waknuk.

That evening they sat down at the kitchen table to what was, for Michael, the most sumptuous meal since he had left Waknuk—and for Sophie probably the best since she had been taken from her parents, sterilised and banished to the Fringes, many years before. Sophie had found cabbages growing next to the farm, and together they prepared a veritable feast. There were even bottles of wine on a shelf, but they preferred not to touch those. They had already made free of enough in the farmhouse—Michael was beginning to think he should return, in a more peaceful time, and make amends somehow.

He had no doubt now, as to what would happen once they had finished their meal. Sophie stood up, kissed him passionately, and beckoned to him. He did not need to follow her into the bedroom, to see her strip off her clothes, to know what was in store. This time there was no shyness as he joined her in the bed....

But he was still worried. Eventually they both drifted off to sleep, but he awoke while it was still dark. For half an hour, perhaps, he lay awake, unable to get to sleep. He perceived that Sophie was also awake. She got up and went to the wardrobe, finding a nightdress which she slipped on. Then she returned to the bed and turned to face him.

“You are worried about what’ll happen between you and Rachel, aren’t you, my dear,” she murmured. “Don’t try to deny it: I can feel it in your thoughts. Please understand, Michael, everything will come out right for you, in the end. Don’t you understand? Yes, this morning, and this evening, you and me—were—delightful—but I’m not your girl, and you’re not my man. It won’t last. We are too different, and we shall in time go our separate ways. I know you want to, eventually, follow your friends—to wherever they’ve gone to. They’ve left Labrador behind, haven’t they? I don’t. I want to find a man who can love me for what I am: a man somewhere in Labrador, not further—almost certainly. One who can understand how it is possible for a couple to love one another without children. You will want a wife whom you _really_ love—with whom you can raise a family. Go to Rachel!”

Michael realised at once how sensible she was. More sensible than he—and certainly more sensible than David, who had befriended her as a child. They had enjoyed their brief affair, but they were mismatched. Their passion would not last. And he realised he had not really betrayed Rachel.

But he wondered how Rachel would see it. He still did not dare to send her more than the most mundane thought-shapes.

In the morning they harnessed the horse to the cart, and to their relief it seemed quite at ease with it. Evidently it had pulled a cart before. After a trial run around the farm, to make sure that the repaired axle was turning freely, they loaded up the cart and set forth.


	5. Rachel

Michael estimated that they were only about two days’ journey from Waknuk: they were now leaving the Wild Country and returning to more civilised country: the country he was familiar with. He still marvelled at their good fortune in not meeting a single person, all the way from the Fringes, but their luck did not hold out. Towards the afternoon of the first day, they began to meet people. People walking, people on horseback, people driving carts like theirs. ‘Normal’ people going about their business. None of them took any notice of Michael and Sophie: they looked just like any farming couple. He noticed that most of the people were women. Then of course he realised. Almost all the menfolk of Waknuk and surrounding districts had been called away to the raiding party. Most of them would be dead. Did these people know that, yet?

Towards the end of the second day, things changed. They saw a ragged, unkempt man carrying a gun, walking towards them. As soon as he saw them, he raised his gun, aimed straight at them, and fired. But their horse took fright at the sudden movement and reared up. The bullet, evidently meant for Michael, struck the horse in the foreleg. It sank down again, then crumpled onto the ground, clearly in agony, almost upsetting the cart. The man was busy trying to reload his gun, but Sophie was too quick for him. Before Michael could even reach for his bow, she had planted an arrow in his chest.

Michael got down and approached the fallen man. He was clearly quite dead, the arrow having pierced his heart. Then Michael turned his attention to the horse which had saved his life. It was in a pitiful state: its foreleg clearly shattered by the bullet. Michael knew at once what he had to do. Picking up the gun and reloading it, he went to the horse and pointed the gun at its head. Sophie looked away....

“What do you think he wanted?” asked Sophie, as they unloaded the cart, unharnessed it, and pushed it into the woods, trying to hide it as best they could. “Do you think he knew....?”

“No, unlikely,” said Michael. “I think he just wanted the horse—and cart.”

They had to hide what was left of their provisions, and shoulder what they needed for the rest of the journey—on foot. They also tried to hide the man’s body. The cart was too heavy for them to drag further on the path. And they could do nothing about the dead horse. Michael guessed that they were only a few miles from Waknuk He had contacted Rachel again, told her they would soon be with her. Rachel was in good spirits.

Next morning, Michael’s plan was to visit Rachel’s farm first, and find out how things stood there—find out more, that is, than Rachel was prepared to tell him. Afterwards he would quickly make it to his own home. His parents would be anxious about him, especially if they had heard rumours about the ‘spiders’. His father, especially, who had been too old to join the raiding party—thankfully. And he needed to find out for sure what had become of Sally and Katherine, who had been captured and tortured—and Mark, who had simply disappeared. He feared the worst.

Steering well clear of Waknuk itself, they tramped through the familiar country towards Rachel’s farm, which was just to the west. As they approached, they heard the dogs barking and running out to greet them, closely followed by Rachel herself, who flung herself into Michael’s arms. They clung tightly to each other for a long time, while Sophie watched them with a smile on her face...

In the farmhouse, they were introduced to Rachel’s mother, and Michael sized up the situation. Rachel’s father, whom Michael had never met, had not joined in the raiding party: he was very ill in bed: he had never recovered, it seemed, from the shock of losing his elder daughter Anne, who had committed suicide a year or two earlier. But many of the farm-hands had indeed joined the party. Stories about the ‘giant spiders’ were rife, and everyone around was very nervous. Rachel and her mother were left to manage what was left of the farm almost on their own, besides having to care for Rachel’s sick father. Not surprisingly, most of their crops were unharvested, although it was now late summer. Many of their livestock had died.

It was clear that Rachel’s mother welcomed Michael and Sophie, and desperately wanted them to stay to help out with the farm—Michael especially. It was equally clear to Michael that he must carry out his original plan to carry Rachel away with him—to wherever? How could he explain these things to Rachel’s mother?

He had no need. Rachel’s mother looked at him curiously for a few minutes. Then she said, “you’re one of _them_ , aren’t you?”

Michael made no reply.

“One of _them_ , I mean—like Rachel here—like David, and Rosalind, and Petra...”

“You _know_?” Michael stammered at last.

“I’ve known for some time. I think I could almost read Rachel’s mind, myself. But I’m not one of _you_ , mind. I could just sense that she was getting news from you, all the time you weren’t here.”

“Does Rachel’s father know?”

“I don’t think he does. He’s very poorly: we don’t expect him to live through the winter, and frankly it’ll be a relief when he goes.”

“So—you know that Rachel and I need to get away.”

“Yes—I suspected as much. I wish it were otherwise, but I agree, you are still in danger here. Don’t worry about me: I’m not about to tell anyone! They tell me old Strorm is dead: is that true?”

“Yes, it is.” Joseph Strorm had been shot by his elder brother Gordon, at the height of the battle in the Fringes.

“I knew he had disappeared along with many of the other men. With him gone, the community is falling apart. No-one seems to be doing much about Deviations at the moment. But it’s still dangerous here.”

“David, Rosalind and Petra are still alive,” said Michael. “I can’t tell you more than that, but they’re safe.”

No-one spoke for a long time. Rachel’s mother set about placing a modest lunch before them: bacon and a few eggs, tomatoes and bread and butter. And a small pot of beer—the first they had tasted for weeks. All the time, Rachel’s mother surveyed the newcomers intently without speaking.

Finally she looked at Sophie. “I don’t quite see where you fit in to all this. I’m right in guessing, you’re not one of _them_ , am I?”

“No, I’m not,” agreed Sophie. “Though I am now picking up some of their thoughts. My mother was the same: she could send David some of her thoughts, Mrs... er, Mrs?” and Sophie choked back a tear.

“Oh, call me Amelia, please! So—where do you come from?”

Instead of replying, Sophie pulled off one of her moccasins. Amelia gave Sophie’s foot a very brief glance, and then nodded as Sophie replaced her moccasin.

“I guessed as much. As soon as I heard your name was Sophie, I remembered. What a hue and cry that was! How long ago was it? Seven years? Eight? The Wender family and their six-toed daughter. They vanished from here, but they were caught. And poor young David bore the brunt of it. His poor back! His sister Mary told me how he had suffered.”

“Sophie suffered worse than he did,” Michael remarked, simply—but rather hastily. He glanced at Sophie as he said this, but she showed no reaction. “...and your family, of course...”

Amelia choked back a sob. But quickly recovered, and said, “Of course. I’m glad you’re here now, Sophie. You’re welcome here, any time. Though we have little to offer.”

Michael was reminded of something. “Mrs—er, Amelia, I really have to get across to my parents. They’ll be worried sick.”

“Don’t worry about them. They’re all right. As soon as I learnt you were here, I sent old Benjamin—he’s just about our only remaining farm hand—across to their house to bring them the news. He’s taking a message that you’ll call on them tomorrow. So relax. But, Michael,” and Amelia lifted a warning finger, “don’t tell them as much as you’ve told me. I know your parents, I know they’re decent folk—but I’m not sure you should be spreading it around too freely. Not even with old Strorm gone. The Inspector is still around...”

They spent the rest of the day organising sleeping arrangements. Sophie was to share Rachel’s bedroom, while Michael was to sleep in Anne’s old bedroom. He felt a bit uncomfortable about this, remembering how Anne had almost betrayed them and then met her tragic death—but there was no alternative.

Michael was so worn out, now, that he fell straight onto his bed and fell sound asleep. When he woke up, it was dark, and Rachel was standing by his bed wearing a nightgown.

“ _No words,”_ she said briefly in thought-shapes. She sat down on the end of the bed and was silent for a few minutes. Michael knew something was about to come out. He lay there, waiting.

“ _Michael, I know all about it. About you and Sophie—in the farmhouse...”_

Michael could not even reply in thought-shapes. He was struck dumb.

“ _You silly boy!”_ she continued. “ _Did you_ _ **really**_ _imagine you could keep an emotional experience like that to yourself? I knew even before Sophie told me....”_

“ _She **told** you?”_

“ _Of course she told me. She told me everything. The wash-tub, and all. Something about wanting you to ‘experience’ her ‘becoming a woman’. What she meant by that, I wasn’t sure. But Michael, I’m pleased. Really I am. Not a bit angry. Oh Michael!—I so much wanted you, but I didn’t want us both to be virgins when we finally came together. It’s so much better this way. I love you and I know you love me—really.”_

“ _Oh, Rachel! Of course I do!”_

“ _But not yet, Michael. I want us to be really ready. I want us to get married. In a church. Not here. In Kentak, perhaps...”_

She lay down next to him, but kept her nightdress on. He kissed her briefly but passionately, and she kissed him back; but then she rolled over and they both fell asleep.


	6. A Surprise Visitor

When Michael woke up next morning, he was alone. He felt a great sense of calm and relief come over him. Sophie was—fun. But he had understood, before they even left the abandoned farm, that she didn’t want it to continue, and nor did he. They were both very young, and so different in so many ways—but they had one thing in common: they were both very practical-minded. He was sure Sophie would make out somehow, and that they would remain—good friends.

But Rachel! Whether he’d known before that it was inevitable that he and Rachel would marry, he was unsure. But he was sure now. It seemed to have been pre-ordained the moment David, Rosalind and Petra fled. Maybe even before, but that act had consolidated the feeling.

Meanwhile, there was work to do today. Michael had to go to his parents. How they would receive him he was not sure, but, compared to other Waknuk residents, they were fairly broad-minded. He hoped it would be all right. He also had to find out what had happened to Sally and Katherine: the two girls—not sisters—from neighbouring farms, who had been captured, tortured and possibly murdered. And, if possible, Mark, some distance away, who had simply ‘stopped’.

He went into the kitchen. Breakfast was set out, and Rachel and Sophie were already there, and both were grinning at him strangely. _“There’s a surprise for you,”_ whispered Rachel in thought-shapes, just as Amelia walked in, leading a young man whom Michael thought he recognised. It took a moment to realise....

“ _Mark! Oh, Mark, you’re safe!”_ Michael choked back his tears.

“Speak in words please,” cut in Amelia, who appeared fully aware of the thought-exchanges. “Remember Sophie and me: we want to hear too.”

“Mark!” Michael continued in words. “What on earth happened to you? We all thought you were dead.”

“Well, I very nearly was,” replied Mark, matter-of-factly. “I was struck down by a fever. A very unpleasant fever: I was delirious for three days. I don’t remember much about that. I think my people thought I _was_ dying. But on the third day the fever broke and the doctor said I would pull through. Some sort of brain-fever, I think he said it was. He wasn’t sure if it would permanently affect my mind. Of course, he meant one’s _normal_ mind, not the sort of mind we possess...

“It didn’t. But one thing it _did_ affect, though. I just couldn’t send thought-shapes any more. It was so frustrating. I could hear Rachel trying to sound me out—very faintly, much fainter than before: but I couldn’t get through to her. I sensed her communicating to you, Michael; I couldn’t make it all out, but she seemed to be saying I must have had an ‘accident’. I couldn’t hear your response.

“So I thought it was best to get to Rachel’s house as quickly as possible, to reassure her and the rest of you. It was a long time before I felt fit enough to travel, and of course my mother wanted me to stay in bed. But this morning, when I got up early, I felt I was fit enough, so I left a note for my mother (I hope she won’t be angry), sneaked out and borrowed one of the horses, and here I am!”

“Can you send thought-shapes now?” asked Michael. And in thought shapes, _“Did you hear that?”_

In response Mark sent a very faint _“yes—just about”_. His power was beginning to come back. But clearly he could not transmit over more than a few yards. “I’ll have to work on it,” he said ruefully, in words.

“First Sophie, and now Mark,” Michael muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Surely the good news isn’t going to last out.” And aloud: “I’m so delighted to see you Mark. But now I really must leave and get to my parents as soon as possible. And then there’s Sally and Katherine...”

“I’ve not heard anything more about them,” said Mark. Rachel nodded. “But don’t hold out too much hope.”

“Before you go,” said Amelia. “There’s something I ought to say. Sophie. You’re not safe, in this district, with that name. People have long memories. As I have. You might fall under suspicion. In fact, it’s certain people will suspect. Have you thought about this?”

Sophie had to admit, that she had not.

“Well, can we call you Stephanie? I used to have a younger sister called Stephanie: she died when she was only a little girl. It would be a comfort to me to have a Stephanie in the house, once more. If you’ll agree to stay with me for a while. Especially after Rachel gets married...” Michael gave a start. “Yes, Michael, Rachel’s told me. Yes, you’re both very young, but you’re both very sensible too. I’m delighted for you both..”

For Amelia to say that, remembering the trauma of her elder daughter Anne’s disastrous marriage to Alan less than a year earlier, must have taken some courage. Michael was impressed—but he understood.

Rachel said, without ceremony: “I’m coming with you, Michael. At least as far as your parents. But Sophie (not ‘Sophie’! ‘Stephanie’) should stay here though. It’s still not safe for her. And I’m not coming beyond there, to investigate Sally’s and Katherine’s places. It’s not safe for both of us to turn up. You can always pretend that you’re an old friend of one of them—boy-friend, even. For me it’s more difficult.

“And besides, I have to go up and see Father first. He doesn’t even know we’re here yet. No, Michael, you stay here. I’m not going to tell him about you—or Stephanie. But I always go up to him, every day, to sit with him for about an hour. He’s barely responsive, but he knows I’m there—and he’ll know if I’m not. Will you wait that long?”

“Of course,” said Michael. And he sat down in the kitchen whilst Rachel disappeared towards her parents’ bedroom.

Amelia busied herself in the kitchen, but she had time to chat to Michael. He asked about Waknuk.

“Keep clear of there, Michael. There’s bad blood—and things are no better since Joseph went. Emily (that’s Joseph’s wife, you may remember)—Emily isn’t herself any more. Obviously distraught at losing two of her children, and then her husband who went off without a word—well, without a good word, that is. She’s not in her right mind any more. She has to be looked after, has panic attacks, that sort of thing. Her daughters Mary and Sarah are practically running the farm on their own.

“And I’ve heard that that neighbour of theirs, Angus Morton has put in an offer to buy the farm. Knowing his former hatred of Strorm, I expect he’ll be putting in the lowest possible price he can get away with! Mary and Sarah are resisting his offer for now, but how long can they last out. Morton isn’t to be trusted either—he’s been in a foul mood for quite a while. He thinks David kidnapped his daughter, not to mention stealing his precious great-horses—but from what you’ve told me, it seems to have been the other way around...”

Michael was suddenly reminded of the urgent question he’d meant to ask before. “Amelia, do you remember an old man who used to work on the farm? ‘Uncle Axel’ David used to call him?”

“Oh, him,” Amelia replied. “Yes I remember him. He’s not there any more. I believe he vanished on the very day after David, Petra and Rosalind ran off. Possibly to save his own life: there were rumours that Strorm suspected him of tipping off the children. Anyway, he stole a horse and he’s gone...”

Michael was shattered at this piece of news. He knew that if Rachel and he were ever to carry out their plan of escaping from Labrador altogether, they would need to cross the sea—and Uncle Axel was the one person he could think of who could give advice about sea-crossings. Now he was lost to them. “Have you any idea which way he might have gone?” he asked.

“No-one really knows, but my guess is he went back to his old haunts in Rigo. After all he’s a seafaring man, and he’ll have friends there. People who can shelter him—if Waknuk folk ever go searching for him. Though I think that’s most unlikely...”

Not entirely hopeless, thought Michael. They would almost certainly have to pass through Rigo themselves, and they could make enquiries for him there. But failing that, he realised, they ought to be able to sound out other seafarers...

While he was pondering this, Rachel returned. “Father’s just the same,” she whispered to Amelia. “Said ‘Hello Rachel’ very faintly, but then not a word...” And then to Michael, “Are you ready then? I thought we would go on foot: it’s not far and Mother can’t really spare two horses.”

Michael agreed. In a few minutes they had set out. They walked in silence for about half an hour. Then suddenly, Rachel said, in words:

“I think Mark’s got an eye on Sophie—Stephanie! I was watching them this morning. Do you think there’s anything in it?”

The memory of his all-too-recent night of passion with Sophie flashed through his mind, but Michael quickly dismissed it. Things had moved on. “I’m not sure,” he said.

“Nor am I. I think Stephanie shouldn’t settle on one man so quickly. I don’t think she cares for him anyway. I think she wants to find a ‘normal’ man—one without thought-shapes, that is—anyway.”

“We’ll have to wait and see.”

They lapsed into silence once more.

When they were within sight of Michael’s house, Rachel broke in, again in words:

“Michael, I don’t think I want to go to the Sealand country.”

“Zealand, you mean. I rather expected you to say that. I don’t know if I want to go, either. Of course, it’d be really sad not to see David, Rosalind, and Petra again. I promised I’d come after them, and I hate having to break a promise. Perhaps we can write to them? But that place! So many people, all thought-shaping each other—I’m scared of it, of what it can do to people...”

“Where do you think we should go? After we’re married, of course?”

“I haven’t really thought it through. Out of Labrador, at any rate. Which means taking ship somehow.” And he explained about Uncle Axel’s disappearance. Rachel had heard something about that, but she hadn’t known about his seafaring history.

“What other places might there be? Places that aren’t all Badlands, that is?”

“Well, we learnt a bit about the old countries at school. There was somewhere across the sea called ‘Europe’, and somewhere called ‘Africa’. Information was very sketchy. You have to go east or south-east to get to them. I’ve no idea whether they’re habitable, or whether anyone from Labrador has visited them. David told me that Uncle Axel had told him, no-one had. In fact, he didn’t believe there were such places.”

“We must find out, Michael! There must be somewhere there we can live. It can’t all be like Labrador!”

Buoyed up by Rachel’s optimism, they continued in silence to Michael’s house.


	7. Frustration

Michael’s parents were delighted to see him, but they did not go into ecstatic raptures about his return. They greeted Rachel cordially, but did not question her—not yet. Rachel realised that they were quite used to Michael going off on trips for several days—hunting and the like. To them, this was just him returning from yet another trip—albeit rather longer than usual.

And they wanted to know what had happened to others on the raiding party which he had joined.

Michael had to think up a few lies, and pretty quickly and off-the-cuff. He did not dare tell his parents the truth. He said that his horse had gone lame, and that he had fallen behind. Eventually he had lost track of the others, so he decided to turn back. When he was already within sight of Waknuk, the poor beast was in such a poor condition that he decided he had to shoot it (that part of his story, at least, was true!). So he walked as far as Rachel’s house, seeing as she was an old friend of his and it was nearer than his home. After he had rested for a while, Rachel insisted on coming on with him.

“And there’s something else we need to tell you. Rachel and I are going to get married...”

Rachel hadn’t expected that announcement so soon, she was confused and she blushed prettily. Michael’s mother smiled, but his father looked at him, questioningly, for a long time.

“Come with me into my study, Michael.” he said. “I’m sure my wife will have much to say to Rachel...”

Michael realised he should have been more tactful; should have held back on that announcement for a while. But it was too late.

Once seated comfortably in the study, Michael’s father began:

“Well Michael: this is all very sudden—and quite a surprise. Have you known Rachel for long?”

“Quite a few years now. I think we met at one of the village parties, and we’ve been seeing each other on and off since then.”

“So you remember her sister, then?”

Michael was caught off-guard, but he recovered himself quickly. “I didn’t really know her. She was a lot older than us...”

“Not that much older. So you must know all about her marriage—the calamity in which it all ended, for both of them?”

“Yes of course I know about that. Tragic case.”

“Tragic indeed. I must confess, I find it surprising that less than a year after that dreadful affair, Rachel is suddenly so keen to get married...?”

“I find it surprising too, Father. But Rachel is absolutely determined. She knew what that Alan Ervin person was like, the life he led Anne for the brief time they were together. I think she believes me to be the exact opposite. Who can tell what are in a woman’s thoughts?” (Michael smiled to himself, privately, at that!) “All I know is that I love her, and she loves me..”

“I can see already that she’s a far more sensible, more composed person than her sister was. Your mother, I’m sure, will even now be finding out a lot more! And I’m sure you are just the man to look after her. But I still think you should back off for a few years. You are both still very young. Under-age.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to give us permission, Father?”

“What does Rachel’s father say about it?”

“I don’t know. The man is very sick, I haven’t even met him yet.”

“That settles it, then, Michael. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my answer is No.”

Michael knew he could not argue the case. Once Father had made up his mind about something, there was no gainsaying.

They went back to the living room. Rachel was there, and Michael’s mother. She glanced at her husband, then they tactfully withdrew, leaving Michael and Rachel alone together.

“He said no, didn’t he,” said Rachel, in words. Michael nodded. “I knew he would,” she continued. “I could see it in his eyes. Your mother has been giving me a hard time, too. Lots of questions about Anne. This was difficult for me! I had to be very careful not to give the game away. I just said, I’d told Anne I didn’t like Alan, that I thought he was a brute, that we’d quarrelled about it, then she’d refused to talk to me any more. Did you know that there were bruises found on Anne’s body when she was found—bruises that couldn’t have been caused by her having hanged herself?”

“No, I did not,” replied Michael.

“Well, there were. I believe my parents tried to hush that fact up. But they were there. I found the body—remember?”

“Wouldn’t the doctor have reported them?”

“I think he tried to, but my parents begged him not to. Anyway, that’s all in the past now. Please let’s not talk about it any more. It still upsets me.”

“What are we going to do then? I’m twenty, as you know. I’ll be twenty-one early next year. But you’re only just turned seventeen. It’s a long time to wait.”

“I don’t know. But the first thing you need to do is check out Sally’s and Katherine’s houses. Ask your father for a horse. Just say, you need to go out for a while to think things over, you want some space for yourself. He’ll understand, believe me.”

Michael’s father was true to Rachel’s expectations. He was a kindly man, when he wasn’t being firm about his decisions. He said, of course Michael was upset, of course he needed time alone. And if he wanted a horse, of course he could have a horse. Meanwhile, if Rachel didn’t want to go with him, she was welcome to stay with them until his return. He should return before nightfall.

So Michael set off. On horseback, it took him only about quarter of an hour to reach Katherine’s farm, which was the nearer—but before he was three-quarters of the way there, he knew his mission was in vain. The whole farm had been burnt to the ground: not just the barn, like with the farm in the Wild Country, where he and Sophie..... no matter. Here, the entire farmhouse had been gutted, absolutely nothing was left, just a few embers not even smoking. There was no-one about.

Michael searched around for a while, all the while keeping a careful lookout in case someone spotted him. He found nothing.

So he turned his horse towards Sally’s farmhouse, about half a mile further on. To his relief, that one seemed to be intact. And there were people working there. As he approached the gate, a farm-hand hailed him. A short, stocky young man, with long straw-coloured hair tied up in a pony-tail. He thought he recognised him from a previous visit, but the farm-hand did not appear to recognise him—luckily.

“Hello,” said Michael. “I’m looking for someone called Sally. I believe she used to live here.”

“Don’t know anyone of that name, sorry chum.”

“But she was living here only a short time ago.”

“As I said, no-one of that name’s lived here in my time, and I’ve been here five years. Now, if you haven’t got any business here, clear off. I’ve got work to do.”

Michael cursed himself for having let slip Sally’s name. An appalling blunder: he just hadn’t thought it through. Of course Sally had been proscribed as an outcast, had been arrested, had been tortured, probably to death. That piece of knowledge would be widely known: even to mention her name was dangerous. He should have just bluffed his way in: asked if any jobs were going, for instance. With any luck, he would have been taken to see the farm’s owner—who might still be Sally’s father, or might not. Then he might have been able to play it by ear.

But it was too late now.

Anyway, Michael knew it was useless to pursue the matter further: he may have already aroused suspicion. Supposing the unfriendly farm-hand reported his questioning to the farm owner—or to the Inspector? Apologising, he beat a hasty retreat and went straight back to his own house.

His parents were surprised to see him back so early, but knew better than to ask him questions. Michael asked if he could accompany Rachel back to her own house, and they at once agreed. It was obvious that Father, after giving his firm refusal to their marriage, was going out of his way to be generous and helpful to them. He said, Michael could stop the night at Rachel’s house, but he’d expect him back tomorrow.

After a quick lunch, Michael and Rachel set off on foot. They had not used thought-shapes since they left Rachel’s house that morning, and all the time they were at Michael’s house, and of course Rachel hadn’t dared to ask him about Sally and Katherine in the presence of his parents, but now she broke in: _“It’s bad news, isn’t it?”_

“ _I’m afraid so,”_ replied Michael, and he related all that he had discovered.

“ _Do you think there’s any chance they’re still alive?”_ asked Rachel.

“ _They could be. I saw no sign of any bodies at Katherine’s—but then I didn’t expect to. We can still hope. But we’ve no clue as to where to search.”_

“ _What are we going to do?”_

This, time, Michael was more sure of himself. He’d thought about this as he was riding back from Sally’s. _“First of all, I’m going to tell my parents that I’m going to live in Kentak. They won’t object to that. Well, I have to now: I may be a marked man: I don’t trust that farm-hand. And remember, I went to school there: I have friends there whom I can stay with. No-one’s going to follow me there. You stay with your mother and father for a few weeks—then I’ll come and fetch you. Kentak is a big place, we can lose ourselves there. I won’t directly disobey Father—I can’t anyway—so the wedding will have to wait. That’s as far as I’ve thought things out so far...”_

At Rachel’s house, they found Stephanie hard at work in the kitchen, and Mark outside chopping wood. Mark greeted them with a cheery thought-shape _“Hi there!”_ : his powers were evidently gradually returning to him. Inside, Stephanie greeted them warmly. “Your mother’s with your father at the moment, Rachel. I’m afraid there’s not much change with him. And she’s agreed, I’m free to stay here for the time being. I’d like that. She can’t afford me wages but I’ll get bed and board. Mark’s going to stay on too—but he’ll be going back to his mother at weekends.”

“I’m going to stay on here for a while, too,” said Rachel.

“Excellent! I was hoping you would. Have you noticed, Mark’s already trying to score on me? You have? I thought you would. It’s not that I don’t like him, he’s a nice lad and quite attractive—”; Stephanie winked at Michael as she said this, “but I’m not ready for this, and not with him—especially not if he’s going to recover his thought-speech powers, as seems likely. We’d be far too mismatched. Although I’m improving with my ‘thought’ ability—just a bit. At any rate, I’m glad you’ll be around as a sort of chaperone.”

That evening, Michael and Rachel once again retreated to Anne’s former bedroom. Rachel stripped down to her petticoat, but not further. _“Remember me like this, until we next meet. But no more!”_ she murmured, as he kissed her. _“We have to get married, however long it takes.”_ Michael knew that she would stick to her word.


	8. A Funeral

In Kentak, Michael had found two of his old school-friends, without difficulty, and it was his great fortune that they had just rented a flat and were looking for a third to share the rent. Michael gladly accepted, and being handy with tools he soon found work as a carpenter. He communicated with Rachel daily, but at her suggestion they only used thought-shapes at night, when they were both in bed. He also wrote her frequent letters—pointless perhaps, but only to allay suspicion. Rachel reported that Mark was still making eyes at Stephanie, but making little progress: she was firm in her resolve that “he was a nice boy” and that was that. Since she was still sharing Rachel’s room, whilst Mark, when he slept over, was in Anne’s old room, he couldn’t press things any further, even if she’d let him.

Michael only visited Waknuk occasionally: it would seem odd if he didn’t. His parents seemed reconciled to the fact that he was regularly seeing Rachel. It seemed that, having refused to allow the marriage mainly to protect Rachel from possible harm, his father was now softening his stance. But Michael did not plan to disobey him, not unless...

In November came the sad news that Rachel’s father had finally passed away. Amelia was philosophical about it: she said that he had been a fine man until cruelly struck down by his elder daughter’s death, and his passing was a ‘release’—that was the word she used. Michael agreed to come over at once for the funeral, and his parents came too. Mark was still helping out at the farm, and enjoying his work, having perhaps accepted the fact that Stephanie wasn’t to be his.

Stephanie’s attractiveness had blossomed in the meantime: there was little of the Fringes coarseness left in her features, indeed she was now living up to her promise of turning into a little beauty. Several of the local young men had indeed noticed her, but she repulsed them all with quiet tact. What she proposed to do for herself in the future, it was hard to tell. When he saw her again, Michael was astonished at the change in her. He remembered how she had said, at the Wild Country farm, that _“I want to find a man who can love me for what I am: a man somewhere in Labrador”._ Well, clearly none of the men who had approached her, so far, fit the criteria for that man. She could indeed afford to be choosy...

And of course there was the question of her toes. She couldn’t possibly be really intimate with any strange boy who wasn’t ‘in the know’. Any suitor would have to be very carefully sounded out.

Also at the funeral were Mary and Sarah, David’s elder sisters, and Angus Morton and his wife and sons. Michael took care to avoid them, especially Angus, but since he was there with his parents, he though he would be able to avoid suspicion. However he was not quite careful enough. As he was leaving Waknuk church (the service having been conducted by a visiting preacher), he felt a light touch on his shoulder. It was Mary. She drew him to one side.

“You’re Michael, aren’t you,” she whispered. “You were in the raiding party that went after David and Petra.”

Michael said nothing. But he noticed that there were tears in her eyes.

“I know my father’s dead. He would have got in touch by now. I know many others are also dead. What I want to know is, _are David and Petra safe?_ ”

She said this with such urgency that Michael realised that she must know some of the truth. He nodded, but Mary repeated, even more urgently, _“Are they safe?”_

“Yes they are,” Michael said at last. “I can’t say more than that, but I know they’re alive. Also Rosalind.”

“I just needed to know. I was so fond of David—and Petra. I guessed you were linked up with them somehow. Don’t worry Michael; your secret is safe with me. But don’t trust anyone else—not even my sister, and certainly not the Mortons. Anyway, I’m getting married soon, and leaving all this far behind: we’re moving to another part of Labrador, more than a hundred miles off. Sarah will stay behind and arrange for the selling of the farm to Morton. She’s promised to send me my share of the proceeds—after she’s settled a place for Mother, who’s very poorly—but I shan’t be depending on it. I don’t know what her plans are after that...”

At that moment she saw Michael’s parents approaching, so she hurriedly shook his hand and moved on.

That was encouraging, he thought. Another ally—at least, another one who didn’t seem about to drag him off to the Inspector. But she wasn’t going to be there much longer. He wished he’d been able to ask her more—about the state of affairs in Waknuk. As far as he could tell, the very public humiliations: the field-burnings, the communal prayers before slaughter of livestock, that sort if thing, it seemed to have stopped—or at least been toned down. What was happening behind the scenes, though, he did not know—although he feared the worst. He wondered whether there was any change in what happened to Blasphemies—Human deviations—but was afraid to ask.

Should he and Rachel try to make a life of it here in Waknuk, after all? Much would depend on the plans of the others in Rachel’s house, Amelia especially, now that the burden of Rachel’s father had been taken from them.

He also remembered what David had told him. Rosalind’s mother had _actually helped Rosalind to pack up_ for their flight. She must have known. Perhaps she was another ally? He did not know her, but he carefully shot a glance at Angus Morton who was standing some distance away. Next to him was a slight, timid-looking woman, evidently in fear of her husband. He guessed that was she. She had not seen him. He turned away.

He stiffened. At the opposite edge of the crowd of mourners, he spotted a familiar face. Crowned by a shock of yellow hair, tied in a pony-tail. And _next to him was the Inspector_.

Michael did not lose an instant. He thanked Providence that he had spotted the two of them before they spotted him. Ducking under the arm of his astonished father, he ran towards Rachel where she was standing with Amelia, greeting the mourners as they filed past.

“ _Rachel, we must get away. Now!”_

Rachel did not even bother to send a thought-shape. She whispered quickly: “Sorry, Mother. Emergency,” and ran with Michael back to their house. It was empty: both Mark and Stephanie were at the funeral. Rachel scribbled a quick note “Sorry Mother, will try to explain later. Please forgive us for taking the horse.” Then as quickly as possible, they packed some saddlebags and saddled both Michael’s horse, which he had ridden from Kentak, and one of Amelia’s in the stable. Rachel quickly swapped her funereal black skirt for a pair of stout trousers with pockets. Then they mounted and were on their way.

They did not speak nor even exchange thought-shapes until they were nearly halfway to Kentak. By now they thought they were safe from immediate pursuit. They reined in their horses, which were very tired, and took stock in thought-shapes.

“ _You saw someone at the funeral. Who was it?”_

“ _That young farm-hand I met at Sally’s house. I should never have gone there. You remember: the one who told me to clear off. I’d hoped he’d forgotten all about it. He hadn’t. **He was with the Inspector.** And they were searching around all the faces.”_

“ _My god! Then it’s started, hasn’t it. Where can we go?”_

“ _Kentak, to start with. I think my flatmates there are trustworthy, for now. And all my money is there: we’re going to need it. But we shan’t be able to stay long. It looks like Labrador isn’t safe for us after all.”_

“ _Michael, whatever the danger, I’ll never leave you.”_

“ _I was hoping you’d say that. You know, you weren’t under suspicion. No-one saw you at Sally’s house. It’s I who am putting you in danger. But I’m very glad you’re with me.”_

It was now getting dark. Leading their horses a mile further along the road, they came to a place where there was a strip of gravel beside the road. Crossing that, they quickly led their horses in amongst the trees, hoping that their hoof-prints would not be noticed during the night. Then they collected some grass and ferns and made a sort of bivouac in which they could pass the night.

Next morning, mercifully without disturbance, they re-mounted and continued on their way, as quickly as they could, but their horses were still tired, so progress was slow. They hoped that, if any pursuit was to come, it would take time to get organised. Rachel’s sudden flight from the house of mourning, that could easily place her under suspicion, but he hoped that Amelia would somehow cover for her. Struck by a thought, he put out a thought strongly, hoping to contact Mark. Mark responded, very faintly, and Michael quickly explained the situation.

“ _It’s all right,”_ replied Mark. _“Yes, everyone came back to the house, but Amelia put out the word that Rachel was in tears, had gone to her bedroom, and didn’t want to be disturbed. Stephanie, bless her, supported the story, popping in and out of the bedroom with hot drinks. I think everyone believed us. It’ll be some days before her absence is noticed.”_

“ _What do you plan to do? Once Rachel’s absence is noticed, it’ll cast suspicion on you. And maybe Stephanie.”_

“ _I don’t know, but Amelia says she plans to sell the farm. She has a sister some miles off who she thinks will take her in, now Rachel’s father is gone. We may have to shift sooner than that...”_

“ _You and Stephanie?”_

“ _Yes. Don’t worry Michael. There’s nothing between us: it was just a boyish impulse. She still likes me, and I like her—as friends.”_

“ _Will you come after us? To Kentak?”_

“ _Possibly.”_

“ _We may be gone, but I’ll try to keep in touch—wherever we go on to. Try to stay in range.”_ And Michael quickly spelled out to Mark the address of his friends in Kentak, hoping that Mark and Stephanie might be able to catch up with them there.


	9. Kentak

Rachel had never seen a town as large as Kentak. The number of people going to and fro in the crowded streets, the horses and carts criss-crossing everywhere, the shops selling every imaginable kind of produce, the saloons with their swing doors and welcoming beery atmosphere—at the upper end of the town, by the lakeside, the splendid mansions, all immaculately whitewashed, housing families whose wealth she could only dream of—and at the other end of the town the dingy terraces with filth in the streets and beggars squatting in doorways...

And if they ever made it to Rigo, the capital of Labrador, hundreds of miles to the east, that would be a city ten times the size of this one. Maybe with ten times as many beggars...

It was lucky she had Michael with her. She would have been lost in a few minutes without him. He at least was familiar with the bewildering network of streets, and hustled her quickly past the slums and into more civilised quarters.

“That’s my old school, over there,” as he pointed out an imposing building. He was speaking in words, because amongst the crowds of people it seemed more natural—and safer. “But we won’t go too close: I don’t want to be recognised. We’re going to my flat to collect up a few things. I’ll need to call in at the carpenter’s shop and turn my job in. If I don’t, that’ll lead to more suspicion. I’ll think of some excuse.

“I think we can stay at the flat one night, maybe two. But we must be ready to flee at a moment’s notice. It’ll take some time for the pursuit, if there is one, to get organised—but when it is, Kentak is one of the places they’ll look. I’m sorry I can’t show you more of Kentak—there are some really nice parts, especially round the lake. But there’ll be more to see on the journey. Luckily I’ve got a fair bit of money saved up: we need to buy a cart. And at least one fresh horse.”

They got to Michael’s flat without trouble, and found both of his flatmates in. Michael quickly retrieved his store of money, and explained that he and Rachel would have to leave in a hurry – probably for good. He paid them the balance of that month’s rent. Luckily, they didn’t ask any awkward questions. Kentak was full of people ‘on the move’, for various reasons, and they must have assumed it was something to do with him and Rachel—an elopement, perhaps.

Which was not far from the truth.

They then went in search of a horse and cart, but in that they were less lucky. No-one in the town was willing to sell. It seemed that, although Kentak was not directly involved in the turmoil that had engulfed Waknuk and surrounding district a few months earlier, with so many of the men missing and presumed dead after the abortive raid on the Fringes, many people in Kentak were still afraid and alarmed. Quite a lot of residents had fled East—and those that there were left were preparing to flee themselves.

Whatever the reason, no horse nor cart was available, for love or money.

“We haven’t searched all the town,” said Michael, “and it’s getting late. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Suddenly, Rachel tugged at his arm. They were passing a small, run-down church and she drew him towards the door, which was not locked, and then pulled him inside.

“What are we doing in here?” asked Michael. The church was completely deserted.

“Getting married, of course!”

“What!”

“Yes, getting married. Just you and me. We’ll repeat the wedding vows to each other. OK: I know it won’t be a ‘legal’ marriage: no priest, no witnesses, but it’ll do for us. As far as I’m concerned, we’ll be married. As far as your parents are concerned, we won’t be. Both sides satisfied! I wanted to be ‘properly’ married in Kentak, but since there’s no time for that...”

“And the ring...?”

“I found this in the street,” explained Rachel, holding up a small steel washer which just happened to fit over her middle finger. “Of course, I can’t really wear it all the time, it’s the wrong shape—but I’ll carry it. And maybe we can get it shaped into a proper ring, later...”

Michael was still bemused, but he acquiesced. “Do you know the wedding vows?”

“Pretty much. Some of it anyway: the important bits. I remember them from Anne’s wedding. Come on now.” They walked up to the altar and she began: “ ‘Will you, Michael Anthony, take me, Rachel Naomi, to be your lawful wedded wife?’ ”

“I will.”

“Now you ask me the same.”

“OK. ‘Will you, Rachel Naomi, take me, Michael Anthony, to be your lawful wedded husband?’”

“I will. Now together please: ‘We now pronounce ourselves man and wife’ ”

After Michael had repeated the words, he said “this is all highly irregular. We can’t possibly say we’re _legally_ married.”

“I know, but it’s good enough for me. Now let’s get back to the flat before someone finds us...”

At the flat, Michael told his flatmates that Rachel and he had just secretly married. They laughed a bit, but congratulated both of them, and luckily didn’t ask exactly _how_ they’d got married. Kentak was a big town. Then they sat down to a splendid meal, prepared by Michael’s flatmates. Michael thanked them profusely for their help, explaining how his parents had been opposed to the marriage. They promised to cover for him if his parents came enquiring...

They sat talking well into the evening, mainly about the state of affairs in Kentak, and about Michael’s schooldays there. Rachel learnt a lot. Despite Michael having been in contact with her and the others during his schooling, there was much he hadn’t told them! Rachel was highly amused to learn about some of the pranks he and his friends had got into. She made a mental note to pass the stories on to Mark, if they ever got in touch—at present Mark was out of range.

Finally Michael’s flatmates retired to their bedrooms, leaving Rachel and Michael alone. _“Don’t forget this is our wedding night,”_ said Rachel, this time in thought-shapes, as she led Michael into their bedroom. Michael had half been expecting this, but even so, as he followed her, he was consumed by shyness. And this time, Rachel seemed rather shy and uncertain too. She undressed down to her petticoat, as she had done before in Waknuk, then stood there, uncertain what to do next.

At length Michael took the initiative. Quickly stripping off his clothes, he stood there facing Rachel as she fiddled with the buttons of her petticoat. Finally she slipped it off herself, then Michael took a hand and gently relieved her of her undergarments...

“Oh Michael! Please be gentle with me!” she murmured as he slipped into bed beside her. It was hard for Michael to comply with that request, but he did his best and was rewarded when her moans were replaced by squeals of pleasure at the end...

They had been asleep in each others’ arms for perhaps three hours when they were suddenly wakened by a loud knocking at the front door. They clutched each other, terrified.

“Open up!” they heard a loud rough voice calling, and then the knocking resumed. Michael and Rachel leapt out of bed and dressed as quickly as they could. Fortunately their packs were ready and the horses were saddled and hitched outside the back window, ready for an instant getaway. As they clambered out of the window and dropped the short distance to the ground, they could hear one of their flatmates answering the door.

“We’re coming in. We’re looking for a couple of fugitives. A man and a woman. Blasphemies.”

“Blasphemies? Here? What on earth are you on about?”

“You heard us. Blasphemies. Now stand aside please.”

“There are no fugitives of any sort here, let alone Blasphemies. And you can’t come in without a warrant.”

“We don’t need a warrant if we’re searching for Blasphemies. Now will you please stand aside.”

There was the sound of a scuffle, but by this time Michael and Rachel had untied the horses. Hoping that the noise at the front door would mask the sound of the horses’ hooves, they led them carefully across the back yard and out through the gate into the alley. Then they mounted and rode gingerly away.

Once on the main road, they urged their horses to a full gallop and surged out of the town on the east road, towards Rigo.


	10. Pursuit and Escape

“ _It won’t take long before they discover we’ve gone,”_ said Michael in thought-shapes. _“And they’ll expect us to take this road. But don’t worry, I have a plan, if we can hold out for the next two miles. I just hope my friends are OK. It was very brave of them.”_

They soon heard horses’ hooves some distance behind them, but they did not seem to be gaining on them yet. But that would not last—their horses would tire before their pursuers’. He was desperately looking for a spot he had discovered years before, during his schooldays, somewhere where he knew they could safely turn off the road. Fortunately there was a full moon.

At length he pulled up his horse. Rippling across the road was a narrow stream flowing over a bed of stones and gravel. Quickly he turned his horse to the left and picked his way carefully along the stream bed, urging Rachel to do the same. In a minute they were out of sight of the road. They stopped.

“ _With any luck they won’t have seen where we left the road: the stream will have covered our hoof-prints. And also there are so many other hoof-prints on the road, that they won’t guess that we’ve turned aside here.”_

They were in luck. In a few minutes they heard the sound of several horses galloping towards the stream, then splashing across it and continuing along the road.

“ _But where do we go from here?”_

“ _Not back to the road, that’s for sure. They’re sure to realise they’ve lost us, before long, then they’ll turn back. We need to steer to the north—or at any rate to the north-east. The land is less populated in that direction, and there are fewer roads.”_ This was the kind of travel more suited to Michael—more like his expedition to the Fringes, all those months ago. But the going would be tough: winter was fast approaching and there was every chance of snow. That would be a serious problem for them: their hoof-prints would not be clearer if they’d been cast in stone. And the distance was daunting. It was a full 300 miles from Kentak to Rigo by the road, but for them it would be more like 400. On poor tracks and in poor weather, it could well take them at least two months...

For the present, they picked their way along a narrow stony track. Luckily their horses’ hooves made little mark. Michael was hopeful that they had thrown off the pursuit, for now. There was plenty of water, in the form of streams crossing the track, but Michael was beginning to worry about how they would manage for food. Although they had started with full packs, that would soon be exhausted. Also they would need warmer clothes.

At least they seemed to be safe from pursuit for now. So now Michael had time to reflect. Rachel seemed to be reflecting, too. She it was who came up with the obvious question, in thought-shapes:

“ _How did they know we were at that flat? What brought them there so quickly?”_

“ _I wish I knew,”_ replied Michael. _“They must have guessed that we were making for Kentak. Maybe that farm-boy was able to point me out to the Inspector after all. If so, why didn’t they act there and then—at Waknuk church?”_

“ _I think they were afraid to,”_ put in Rachel. _“Amongst all that crowd of people—and remember the Inspector doesn’t stand in as good stead there as in the days of Strorm. Many folk in Waknuk seem to be—well if not exactly rebelling—in doubt about the Purity laws. It’s possible that if he’d come straight at you, he’d have been lynched...”_

“ _Well, it didn’t take them long to get on the chase. How they found the flat is anyone’s guess. Perhaps, once they’d got my name, they asked at the school. They could have found out who my friends are. Oh! I’m hoping they’re all right. But for now, I’m hoping we can get far, far away before they pick up the trail. But I’m not going to deceive you: this is extremely dangerous even without pursuit. We are going well away from the road. There are few townships where we’re going. There may be wild beasts—not only Deviations—but other animals: bears. And if we don’t find food soon, we shall starve. Will you be able to face that?”_

“ _Michael, if we’re facing death, I want to face it with you. If we die, we die together.”_

Michael could think of nothing to say to that.

It was still dark, and the moon was setting. They decided to make camp, where they were, for what was left of the night. It would be madness to try and pick their way along the trail in pitch-darkness. They had brought blankets, but the night was still bitterly cold. They huddled together in their clothes, for warmth.

“Not much of a wedding night, is it?” said Michael, in words.

They had had little sleep when dawn finally broke.

Michael rose first. Now that it was day, he decided to explore a bit around their camp. About a hundred yards off, he found a fairly deep rock pool. Testing the water, he found to his surprise that it was slightly warm. Every other stream and pool they’d passed had been bitterly cold. He guessed that this one must be fed from underground by a hot spring. Enthusiastically, he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the water.

As he came up for air the second time, he saw Rachel at the poolside. She too had stripped off, and she plunged in to join him. Laughing, they came together in the middle of the pool and hugged one another.

“We could resume our wedding night here, couldn’t we?” said Rachel, in words, coyly.

“It’s not night any more,” said Michael, unable to avoid being reminded of the early-morning romp in the washtub, with—with Stephanie. He was a bit reluctant, but Rachel was determined. He was delighted to yield, this time. Afterwards, having dried himself and dressed quickly, he surveyed the narrow trail that they were following.

It seemed to have been little used, but it was quite distinct, winding its way amongst the terrain that was getting steadily more rocky, with many streams and pools. They resolved to follow it as far as it would take them. But before they set out, they had an urgent task to perform, as Rachel reminded Michael.

Rachel volunteered to have first go, this time. Putting out all her strength, she issued the thought-shape: _“Mark? Are you there?”_

Nothing.

Then Michael had a try. Same result.

“What do you suppose? Shouldn’t they have reached Kentak by now?” said Rachel in words.

“If they have, they should be in range. We’re still only a few miles from Kentak, even now.”

“Oh dear!” cried Rachel, and burst into tears—the first that Michael had seen her shed. He remembered how she thought she’d lost Mark, all those months ago, when he had simply ceased to communicate. But he had come back. Nevertheless, was her earlier premonition now coming true...? He could only put his arm around her, lamely remind her that they still had each other, and still had a dangerous journey to undertake: together. Mark—and Stephanie, if she was still with him—would have to look after themselves.

“Rachel. They might simply be asleep,” he finally came out with. Rachel checked her sobs, and threw her arms round his neck.

“Sorry. Sorry! I’m such a fool. I shouldn’t have... It’s just so like—so like after that—I was left so _alone_...” Her disjointed words seemed to confirm Michael’s fears. She slipped into thought-shapes: _“Please forgive me: I was just thinking about that first time...”_

“ _Of course,”_ Michael replied, soothingly. Then, in words, “Question is, what do we do? Wait for them another day, and risk the pursuers getting on to us—or press on?”

“Oh Michael! I’d love to stay here a while! That pool was so lovely! But...”

“We have to move on, Rachel. Even if it means losing contact with Mark for good. We’ll give it an hour, then we’ll move. It’ll be some hours before we’re out of range, if Mark has recovered at least most of his former strength. There’s still a chance...”

They saddled the horses, which looked in better shape after their rest. Michael wondered how long they would last. What he wanted was to come to a village or township—somewhere where they could perhaps buy provisions—or more.

They picked their way slowly along the trail. There was still no word from Mark. They passed many streams and rock pools—some of them evidently warm, like the one they had bathed in, some even hotter, with curls of steam rising from them. They seemed to be passing through a region of volcanic activity; at any rate, they could avoid freezing whilst they were on this path! For the whole day the path wound its way across almost barren country, just a few scrub bushes, and they saw no-one. In the evening they sought out another warm pool and camped beside it for the night.

They continued like this for another four days. By now they had given up contacting Mark. Rachel was clearly still upset but managed to compose herself. On the fifth day they noticed a line ahead, cutting across their path. It appeared to be a road. They stopped a few hundred yards short of it.

“Wait here with the horses,” said Michael, and stealthily approached the road. At the moment he could see no-one on it. He wished he had a map—but maps were hard to come by in Labrador, except in Rigo. He tried to recall what he had seen on the maps at the school, and with the sun shining, he took bearings as best he could. He returned to Rachel.

“I’m not certain, but I don’t think this road leads back to Kentak. I don’t remember the layout too clearly, but I think it heads west and a bit to the north—not the direction we’ve come from. And the other way, east, is definitely the way we want to go. If we meet people, they’ll just assume we’re ordinary travellers. Or so I hope.”

The road, when they started upon it, seemed to be in a poorer state than the one they had taken from Kentak. It had lots of deep ruts and potholes; certainly if they had had a cart, they would have had some difficulty picking their way along it. This encouraged Michael: he said that, with luck, it would lead to less populous parts, but hopefully still to a village of some sort. They did pass several travellers on this road; mostly on horseback, a few on foot. They were ignored: clearly they were taken for just another pair of travellers.


	11. Beth

After a while the road entered a forest. They seemed by now to have left the volcanic area behind—and they were getting concerned about the lateness of the season. For some miles they picked their way amongst the trees, then they overtook an old lady who appeared to be carrying a large bundle of firewood. Encouraged by this, they decided to stop and ask the way.

“ _Let me do this,”_ said Rachel, in thought shapes, as she dismounted. Going up to the woman, she asked, ingenuously, “Is this the road to Rigo?”

“Rigo? Rigo? Don’t know any Rigo! No—wait! You mean _that_ Rigo? Big city out on the coast? Why, that’s hundreds of miles away, my dear. Whatever can you be thinking of? You’ll never make it there, not on those horses!”

“Yes, we know that. What we want to know is, is there a village near here? Somewhere where we can rest and buy provisions, perhaps?”

“Well, there’s Kipalup, a couple of miles down the road. Not exactly a ‘village’, just a few houses. I’m on my way there myself. It’s where I live.”

“Thanks ever so much. Oh, and can we carry your firewood for you?” Michael cut in. He had a little room in front of him on the saddle.

The woman considered for a while—then she handed over the bundle. “Why thank you, that’s extremely kind of you, my dears. My house is second on the left as you enter the village. If you wait for me there, I’ll fix you up with hot drinks and a cake...”

Very trusting, she was, Michael thought, as they continued to the village. The woman, whose name was Beth, they discovered, was as good as her word when she came up. Ushering them inside, she plied them with hot cocoa and a plate of cakes.

“So where have you come from? And how do you expect to get to Rigo?” Beth asked.

Michael thought a while before answering. He did not know the geography of this area, and he could not ‘invent’ a plausible starting-point for them. In the end he resolved upon truthfulness. He was still thinking he could trust this woman. “From Kentak,” he finally admitted.

Beth noticed his hesitation, and smiled. “Kentak, eh? That’s a long way back, and not on the road you were coming along. Did you cut across country?”

Michael nodded.

“I can guess—an elopement, is it? And your families are coming after you? You look very young; Rachel. How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” admitted Rachel, “and yes, we’ve eloped. We even got married, secretly, in a church in Kentak. Here’s the ring,” and she fetched out the steel washer that she’d been carrying all along, and slipped it on her finger.

“Well! Ha ha! Funny sort of ring—but I believe you. And don’t worry: your secret is safe with me: if any of your people come this way; I’ll cover for you. And I’ll tell you a secret,” Beth continued. “I eloped too, just like you did, when I was nineteen. Over fifty years ago now. Ted (that’s my husband), bless him, was ten years older than me, he took me to an out-of-the-way settlement, way up north. It was cold there: colder than it is here: a tough life—but we were so happy! As we grew older we moved back south and settled here. He was a good man, was Ted: I couldn’t have asked for a better husband. Fifteen years ago he was taken from us, and I’ve lived here on my own ever since. I still miss him...”

“How do you live here?” asked Michael, glad to get away from the topic of their ‘elopement’.

“I have some chickens in the back yard—maybe you heard them? And a couple of pigs. And a small vegetable plot: just big enough to work by myself. I sell the eggs to Thomas, over at the village shop, and buy a few necessaries there, to keep going. I won’t say it’s an easy life—not like you have in Kentak, I’ll be guessing—but I manage.”

“We’re sure you do,” said Rachel. “But we really need to push on. We have to get to Rigo, somehow...”

“Well, I wish you luck. Never been that way myself. It’s an awfully long way—even if you cut across back to the road for Rigo. This road would take you too far to the north. And I warn you: it’s many miles to the next village. Why don’t you stop here for the night? I’d be glad of the company: it’s so seldom we get young folk coming this way.”

“Have you any children?” asked Rachel.

“No,” replied Beth, brushing back a tear. “We had two—a boy and a girl. The boy... he was such a sweet lad, but... but... This was when we were still up North. Folk are so scattered, up there, it was a month before the Inspector got around to calling on us. But when he did, he...he....”

She could not finish the sentence. Rachel went to her and put an arm around her comfortingly. “We understand. Of course we understand” she whispered.

“And your daughter,” asked Michael, feeling that he had to ask, though he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer.

“She? Oh, she was ‘normal’. She grew up and married. They were expecting their first child—and then she died in childbirth. The baby died too...”

Listening to this double tragedy, they noticed that Beth was more composed in relating her daughter’s death, than she was in speaking of her son’s fate. ‘Normal’ losses were clearly more bearable than Deviation losses. Michael wondered whether he might have met the son in the Fringes. It was possible.

He flashed a quick thought-shape to Rachel, hoping that Beth wouldn’t notice. _“Shall we stop the night here?”_

Rachel made no reply, but she still had her arm around Beth’s shoulder. “We’d love to stop here for the night,” she whispered. “It’s so kind of you...”

“That’s settled then,” said Beth, getting up. “Rachel, you come and help me make up a bed for you in the spare room—and Michael can sleep.... but there! I was forgetting: you’re married. Well, you may find it a tight squeeze, but I think you’ll find there’s room for both of you in the spare bed.”

A little while later Beth was treating them to a modest supper. While they ate, she told them many tales about her hard life “up North” with her husband. She was convinced that the Old People—those wonderful people who had lived before Tribulation—the cataclysmic event which had shattered the old civilisations—had indeed inhabited Labrador, although sparsely. She said that in those days Labrador had been a cold place—much colder than it was now. Michael nodded: this confirmed some of the things he had learned at school. Possibly the hardship Beth and her husband Ted had endured, up in the far north of Labrador, was closer to what Old People had had to put up with in the more ‘civilised’ parts further south. Whatever the truth of that was, Beth regarded herself as closer to the ‘true Labradorean’ than the more settled people further south.

She also said that it was rumoured that in the Old Days, Rigo had been little more than a tiny settlement of a few hundred people. How it had grown to become the bustling capital it was today, she could not say.

Michael had a question he was burning to ask. “Did you get many—” Then he remembered what Beth had said about her son. Hastily he swallowed his words.

But Beth smiled. “Many Deviations, were you trying to say? Up north? Don’t you be worried now: I know the word well enough! No—really! Let me talk about it, now! What happened to us was—just something that happened. But no: I don’t think we got as many Deviations as you’d have got in Kentak” (Michael had continued the fiction that they came from Kentak. He dared not mention Waknuk...) “We did have a local Inspector, of course,” she continued, “it was the Law—but a lot of the time he sat in his office complaining about the huge distances he had to cover when he _was_ called out—which wasn’t often. I think our son was the first human he’d had to deal with for—oh, ever so many years: we were just the unlucky ones. And people were so kind to us afterwards...”

Michael remember what David had told him about his Aunt Harriet—Harriet who had turned up at the Strorm’s farm with a Deviational baby, only to be firmly repulsed by David’s oppressive father—Harriet who had then committed suicide. How different things had been in Waknuk, compared to what Beth was telling them! And they had already strayed a long way to the north of the direct road from Kentak to Rigo.

He and Rachel needed to think things over. It certainly seemed that there were parts of Labrador where they could live in comparative safety. Provided they really had shaken off the pursuit, that was. They excused themselves, bid Beth good-night, and went to their bedroom.

“ _What do you think, Rachel?”_ said Michael, reverting to thought-shapes, once they were in the rather narrow bed, huddled together. _“Until we arrived at Beth’s house, I felt sure that the only option for us was to somehow get to Rigo, and then find a ship. But now I’m not so sure. Should we go north from here; find somewhere safe in the far north?”_

“ _I think we should press on to Rigo, follow our original plan. Find a ship somehow, maybe get to Europe or Africa even. I don’t like the idea of going north.”_

“ _But Rigo’s where our pursuers will be heading: they’ll expect us to be going there.”_

“ _Rigo’s a big city by all accounts. They’d have to find us.”_

“ _They found us all right in Kentak—and that’s quite a big place too. Didn’t take them long. They’ll have spies all over the place in Rigo, you mark my words—”_

“ _Michael,”_ Rachel broke in petulantly, _“are you trying to start a quarrel with me? We’ve only been married five days and you want a quarrel? I’m dead set on going to Rigo and that’s that! It’s going to be tough enough just for us to survive as far as Rigo, crossing reasonably civilised parts of Labrador. Can you imagine how hard it would be, going north, in rougher country, and even further?”_

“ _Beth and her husband seemed to have managed it.”_

“ _But we’re not Beth and her husband. And maybe they travelled in summer. Now let me go to sleep please. We’ll talk about it in the morning, OK?”_

Michael reluctantly acquiesced. For the first time, he felt Rachel had got the better of him. Anyway, the first part of their onward journey was clear enough: they must continue on the eastern road. Plenty of time for a decision. He turned away from her and slowly drifted off to sleep.


	12. A Setback

They sat at a quick breakfast the next morning, and were unusually quiet—something which Beth noted. Had something come between them after dinner? But no: they had gone straight to bed, and she’d heard not a sound out of them since. It was puzzling, but Beth kept her thoughts to herself.

Beth fixed them up with a few eggs. “Hard-boiled, so they won’t break in your packs. No—really, please take them, I’ve got plenty. Oh and don’t forget to call in at Thomas’s, the shopkeeper. Tell him I sent you.”

“Ah yes, I remember: Thomas,” said Michael. “Where’s his shop? We could do with buying some stuff.”

“Right in the middle of the village: you can’t miss it.” With that, and a hasty farewell, Beth saw them off.

They found Thomas’s shop without difficulty, it had “GENERAL STORE” written up on a swinging board. They hitched up the horses, and walked inside. It seemed to be deserted, but after they rang the bell a few times, an elderly, rather dishevelled man came out from the back: they assumed this must be Thomas.

“Strangers, eh? We don’t see many of those here. What can I do for you?”

Rachel explained that they had just come from Beth, that they were on a long journey, that they needed provisions.

“Beth, eh? That woman’ll bankrupt herself, the way she goes on taking in strangers. But she’s got a good heart, I’ll say that for her. OK, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

With Rachel’s help, Michael ordered a fairly long list of provisions, much of it in the form of ham and cheese and dried fish and fruits—stuff that should last for a long journey, stuff that could be loaded on the horses. As he reached into his money-pouch to pay, he seemed to start momentarily, but he quickly recovered himself. Bidding Thomas a hasty farewell, he hustled Rachel out of the shop, then led her until they were out of sight.

“ _Some of my money’s missing,”_ he said in thought-shapes. _“I know I had nearly 400 dollars when we left Kentak: all my savings: you remember, I counted it out. Now, when I went to pay the shopkeeper, there’s less than 300. And that’s before I paid him. So where has the rest gone?”_ and he started to scan up and down the road, in the vain hope that the missing notes might be lying in the roadway.

“ _No point in doing that,”_ replied Rachel. _“If it’s gone, it’s gone. We’ll have to make do on what’s left—”_

“ _No!”_ cut in Michael. _“It’s got to be that woman. Why, the sly bitch! And she was so kind and welcoming to us! I’m going straight back to sort her out...”_

“No—wait!” put in Rachel, in words, seizing Michael’s arm. Quickly reverting to thought-shapes, she continued: _“don’t you see? It’d be your word against hers, and who’d believe you, in this tiny village? And she’s a poor woman. She knew we had a fair bit of money, we were asleep, and the temptation was probably too much! But she didn’t take it all. And there’s something else. I think she’s a bit suspicious of us. The way she looked at us at breakfast: I didn’t feel comfortable. I wonder. You know what my big mistake may have been? Showing her that ‘wedding ring’. I wish I hadn’t, now. Just a steel washer I’d picked up in the street. She’d have known that if we really planned an elopement, we’d have got ourselves a proper ring, beforehand. So she guessed that elopement wasn’t the main reason for our flight...”_

Michael was thunderstruck. Rachel’s reasoning certainly made sense.

“ _So the best thing for us,”_ continued Rachel, _“is, continue on our way. Look upon what she took as ‘hush money’—if we leave her with it, perhaps she won’t put the dogs on us? It’s worth the chance.”_

Michael nodded.

“ _And furthermore, it strengthens my resolve that we must get to Rigo, somehow or other. Don’t you now realise? No-one in Labrador can be entirely trusted. If Beth can’t, who can be?”_

“ _All right: you’ve got me,”_ said Michael at last. _“Rigo it is. If we’re followed: well, we’ve managed to evade capture so far...”_

They had meanwhile packed up the provisions and mounted, and were leaving the ill-omened village of Kipalup behind. Luckily they had met no other people as they rode out of the village: they realised that even talking in thought-shapes, when there were other people about, was enough to arouse suspicion.

Michael wondered what Beth would do next. He found it hard to get his head around the idea that she was a scheming, vindictive woman—not after all the kindness and generosity she’d shown them the day before. Perhaps she hadn’t taken the money? It occurred to him that if she had, she’d have known he would discover the loss as soon as he went to pay the shopkeeper. Seemed strange. But if not her, who else could have taken it? Apart from the mile or two after they’d left Kentak, and again the few miles on the road leading into Kipalup, they’d not met a soul on the way. And those people they had passed had merely exchanged a “Good day” and gone on their way. It couldn’t have been any of them!

It made no sense. Now that they were away from the village, he sought Rachel’s counsel.

Rachel thought for a long time before answering. “I think,” she said in words, “that this was a sort of double-bluff. She expected us to come storming back to her house, and she had her answer ready. If we did so, she’d then reveal that she knew ‘something’ about us—and since it wasn’t the elopement, she’d challenge us about Deviations. I’m almost certain she guessed the truth about us—although whether she guessed it was thought-shapes or some other sort of Deviation, I’m not sure. Anyway, she then reasoned that we’d take it a step further—that we’d realise she was on to us, that we were at risk—so we’d not come back. So she could keep the money.

“And I think we should avoid using thought-shapes as far as possible. When it’s just the two of us together, and no-one else about...”

Michael had already come to the same conclusion. “Which reminds me. Heard anything at all of Mark since we set out? I haven’t.”

“Nor have I. Not a squeak I’ve been trying, every few hours. We’ll have to leave off trying to send to him. We just have to hope he’s all right. And Stephanie—don’t forget her. She’s in as much danger as he is.”

“Well, if we do make it to Rigo,” added Michael, “there’s just a chance we may meet them there. Remember, that’s where we said we were going.”

There were a few isolated farms and cottages beside the lane as they rode on, at scarcely more than walking-pace. They met a few people but stopped to talk to no-one, and none of them took any notice of them. Finally they left the houses and cultivated fields behind them and entered another tract of forest. There was no-one about.

Beth had advised them that it was over seventy miles to the next settlement, and very little in between except forest and rough scrubland. There were no roads turning off either to the right or the left before then, which was a relief to Michael, since he was now worrying a lot about them getting lost. The weather had turned overcast, and without the sun to guide him he was no longer sure of his bearings. The store-keeper back at Kipalup had been unable to provide him with a map. All he could guess was that the road, for all its twistings and turnings, did seem to be heading in a general easterly direction.

At least the overcast weather meant that it wasn’t so cold. But he still meant to get warmer clothes—furs if possible—when they reached the next village.

For five days they continued to pass through this empty land, meeting no-one. Michael was beginning to worry that they might have somehow missed the next settlement, which according to Beth was named Curkajak. But towards the end of the third day, to their great relief, they came to cultivated fields and saw a scattering of houses ahead.

Michael decided to take a chance. At one of the outlying farms, he dismounted and knocked on the door. “Is this Curkajak?” he asked as a young woman answered.

“It is,” replied the woman, eyeing them for a moment in curiosity. “Going far?”

“Yes,” replied Michael, laconically. He didn’t want to say more than that. Luckily the woman seemed to lose interest in them, and went back into the farmhouse shutting the door.

“Well, at least we know where we are. If only we had a map! I’ll ask at the shop, if there is one.”

They rode on slowly into the village, which appeared to be somewhat larger than Kipalup. And they saw that there was a fork in the road here, with one road leading to the north skirting a large lake, whilst the other apparently turned a bit more to the south-east.

They looked for a store, but couldn’t find one at first. There was, however, a modest inn at the junction: the first they had seen since they left Kentak. At this, Rachel put her foot down.

“We’re going to stay here, whether you like it or not; two nights at the very least. I’ve got money as well, you know: not as much as you, but at least mine is intact. Look at our horses! How could anyone expect any horse to have done what these beasts have done for us? Must be 150 miles at the very least. If you want to find a shop, leave it till tomorrow.”

“All right,” conceded Michael. “One night, at any rate.”

“No: two nights at least. Not only our horses: we need the rest too. I don’t know about you, but I sure am saddle-sore! We’ve made good progress, but it’s still a long way to go.”

Michael couldn’t deny that. He’d learnt a lot about Rachel since they’d started on their journey together: how determined she was, how there was no arguing with her once she’d chosen their course. By contrast, he’d become more uncertain, more ready to accept compromise. How different he’d become, compared with the assured young man he’d been, helping from his rearward position to guide David, Rosalind and Petra to eventual safety! Then he’d thought, he could take charge of any situation: the natural leader. But not now. Rachel had seen to that!

He followed Rachel into the inn. The innkeeper looked them up and down, but only for a moment. It seemed that travellers were more frequent on the busier road they were now to take: a sign that they’d have to be careful. And he asked them to produce their Normalcy cards: something they’d not been asked for since they left Kentak.

Without a moment’s hesitation Rachel handed hers over: Michael quickly followed suit. If they had ever thought of producing passable forgeries, they had missed their chance. Luckily, the innkeeper had never heard of Waknuk, and Kentak was just another settlement “out west” that he knew only vaguely by name. And of course their names meant nothing to him. They had indeed covered a considerable distance: every mile made it that little bit safer.

Until they reached Rigo, that is. Even Rachel had to admit, their epic journey might yet come to nothing once they approached the capital, with all its spies and informers. She wondered—not for the first time!—whether this might all end up in a nightmare journey back to Waknuk, bound and gagged and awaiting banishment to the Fringes...

Best not to dwell too much on those thoughts.

Taking note of their different surnames, the innkeeper assigned them to separate rooms. No point in arguing, of course: the same would have happened in Kentak, and probably everywhere else in Labrador. Except, perhaps, in Rigo...

And, once in his room, Michael could not help but notice the communicating door with Rachel’s room. It was locked, but there might be a key somewhere. Anyway he was dog-tired: he lay down on the bed and was instantly asleep.


	13. In Search of a Map

In the morning Michael and Rachel sat to a more leisurely breakfast than they had enjoyed for many days. They hoped that they’d be able to spend two nights at this village—for the first time since they’d left Waknuk. A good opportunity to rest and recover some of their strength.

After checking that the horses were well stabled, they set out to look for a store. That was not hard: in fact there were three in this village. Calling in at the most likely one, they asked casually for a map.

“Map, eh?” replied the shopkeeper. “Travelling, I suppose, with no idea where to go? Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t have any maps here. I reckon you’ll find a map hard to come by in these parts. Folks here don’t travel far, and those that do know all the local roads. There just isn’t the call for maps. But I suppose you could try the other stores. Anything else I can do for you?”

Michael decided that they couldn’t leave the shop without buying some things, so they stocked up with provisions again. Then they walked on to the second shop—with exactly the same result. Just as they were leaving, with an apology, Michael remembered something. “Got any fur coats here?”

“No—that I haven’t—but you could try Peter’s store down the end of the village. I think he has one or two still.” Thanking him, they went on to the last shop—Peter’s—and found that he indeed had a few furs for sale. “But they’re not cheap, I’m afraid. I’ll be asking forty dollars each.”

Michael searched his dwindling money-pouch in some dismay. Eighty dollars would leave him with very little spending-money for the rest of the journey. “Would you settle for thirty—if we take two?”

“Tell you what. How does thirty-five sound—if you take two? My final offer.”

Michael was silent for a while, but Rachel at once spoke up. “We’ll take them for thirty-five, thanks very much—and Michael, I’m paying for these. I’ve got a little money of my own.” With that she fetched out a pouch from her trouser pocket which Michael hadn’t even noticed up till then. Emptying it out on the counter, she counted sixty-three dollars. “All right then, Michael, you’ll have to find the extra seven...”

Peter looked at the money on the counter, and smiled. “Tell you what: I’ll let you have them for sixty-three. How’s that?”

They gratefully accepted the offer—Michael ruefully realising that he could probably have haggled Peter even further down—but at least they had the coats. They found one that fitted Michael perfectly, but the smallest in the shop was still a bit too big for Rachel. “Don’t worry, it’ll do fine for me. Oh and by the way, I don’t suppose you have any maps—or a compass?” she added as an afterthought.

“Maps, indeed! I reckon you’ve been asking around already! Sorry, I can’t help you there. You could try the Inn—I think there’s a map on the wall somewhere, though it won’t be for sale. But I do have a compass. Not a very good one, I’m afraid: compasses don’t work well in this part of Labrador for some reason. But since you’ve bought the coats, I’ll let you have it for a dollar, OK?”

Gratefully wrapping the coats around them, and pocketing the precious compass, they went straight back to the inn. Searching around, they did indeed find a map on the wall, in one of the private rooms. They went straight to the innkeeper.

“Sell my map? You must be bloody joking, my friends! That’s the only map for fifty miles around: I’d cut off my arm before I part with it...”

Rachel had an idea. “If we can’t buy it, can we at least copy part of it?”

“Well, I suppose you can—just so long as you don’t damage it in any way. Tell you what: I’ll get some paper and a pencil.”

“Let me do this, Michael,” said Rachel, when the paper arrived. “I probably sketch better than you: I had some lessons when I was younger.”

After a quick lunch, she settled down before the map. After about two hours’ work, she had produced what she thought was a passable copy, concentrating mainly on the south-east, which was the direction they intended to travel. When the innkeeper next came by, she asked him “do you know what the scale of the map is?”

The innkeeper seemed puzzled by this question, so she tried again. Searching out a village which was marked near the south-east corner of the map, she pointed to it and asked “Do you know how far this village is from us?”

The innkeeper scratched his head for a while, then he answered “Well, I reckon it’s about two days’ journey there, by cart. Let’s call it forty miles, shall we?”

Rachel realised that this was the best she’d get from him. Better than nothing. So the map would guide them some of the way towards Rigo, before they ran out.

Meanwhile, Michael had been exploring the village, particularly the north-west road which ran alongside the lake to the east. Reaching the last house by the lakeside, he thought he’d ask how far the lake extended, to the north. He still had this hankering idea of diverting to the north, perhaps even persuading Rachel to do a circuit around the lake at the very least. And there appeared to be Old People’s works of some sort at the very head of the lake, although he couldn’t fathom out what their purpose might be.

“How far to the north? Oh, I reckon it’ll be about a hundred miles or so.”

“ _A hundred miles!”_ said Michael, flabbergasted.

“Yes indeed,” replied the old man who had answered his knock. “Didn’t you realise? This is one of the largest lakes in Labrador, I reckon. If there aren’t larger ones, even further north. And you really want to do a circuit round it? I wish you luck, mate! There’ll be no roads up there, and no end of impassable torrents to get across. I don’t know if it’s even possible. Never been that way myself.”

Michael at once thanked him and returned to the village, thankful that his wild plan had come to nothing. At least he didn’t need to argue with Rachel about it! He found her in the map room, just putting the finishing touches to her copy. She showed it to Michael. “Best I can do, but we’ll be off the edge of it in another fifty miles or so, so it won’t carry us far.”

“Rachel, you’re a treasure. I couldn’t have done it half as well.”

“Now now! Flattery isn’t the way to win me round!”

“OK, but we must really protect this like gold dust, for as long as we need it. Driest part of one of the saddlebags.”

They sat with the copy spread out on a table in front of them, doing their best to memorise as much as possible of it. Rachel pencilled in a few additional settlements from the original on the wall, seeing as they didn’t know what detours they might be forced to make. When they were satisfied that they had as much information on it as they could possibly need, Michael took it to his room and carefully folded into one of the saddlebags. Returning, since it was now well into the evening (days being short at this time of year), he and Rachel sat down to dinner.

“Early night for me, I think, and early start—OK?” said Rachel, finally getting up from the table. Michael nodded, pointing to his unfinished cocoa as excusing his delay. Once he’d finished, he in turn went upstairs to his own room. As he entered, he put a hand to the communicating door with Rachel’s room, and to his surprise he found it was now unlocked.

As he gingerly opened the door a crack, Rachel called out from the other side, “Come on in.” Michael suddenly felt a moment of shyness once more, but pulling himself together he swung the door open. Rachel was lying on the bed, naked, eyeing him intensely. Michael found himself eyeing her back, equally intensely: it was the first time since they had swum in the rock-pool. Meanwhile it was taking him forever to divest himself of his clothing: everything seemed to be getting tangled up. Finally, without once taking his eyes off her, he joined her on the bed.

“Not the world’s greatest beauty, am I?” murmured Rachel, kneading her breasts. Michael muttered something inaudible. Her beauty was different to that of Stephanie’s: more homely, less exotic. But all the same, it was Rachel’s attractions that now consumed him....

In the morning, after Michael had carefully disarranged his own bed—they could do without rumours—they had a hurried breakfast, paid their bill,.mounted, and were on their way. Their horses seemed fresher for the day’s rest, at least. As they left Michael surveyed what was left in his money-pouch. Enough for one—perhaps two—more stays in inns, plus a few provisions—then their money would be exhausted. He kept this information from Rachel for now. He knew they were running short, and felt he ought to find answers for himself.

As they followed the south-east road, they found themselves coming to more settled regions, with more villages. More people passed them on the way, but no-one exchanged more than the odd greeting. Michael suggested they would do better not to stop at any of the villages—still mindful of their unfortunate experience back at Kipalup, he explained to Rachel. Instead they made camp as best they could by the roadside, taking care to tether the horses well away from the road where they could not be seen. The weather was now getting steadily colder, but with their fur coats spread over them, and huddled together, they were able to keep reasonably warm.

On the fourth day out from Curkajak, they were almost at the edge of their map which would then become useless to them. Just as they were setting out, however, Rachel suddenly stopped, with her hand in the air. “Listen!” she said urgently. “In thought-shapes,” she added, unnecessarily.

Michael was already straining as hard as he could—yes! there were faint but distinct thought-shapes coming from somewhere to the north. Someone—a woman, no-one they recognised—was saying something like _“Morning, dear. Is it today we call on Peter?”_ And a man replied something like _“I think it was tomorrow we agreed, Rachel. I’ve got skins to set out.”_ Then there was silence.

Clearly this ‘Rachel’ was a different person.

So there were others out there!

Michael could contain himself no longer. They had not, themselves, projected thought-shapes for some time now, recognising that there was some risk in doing so. But now, putting forth all his strength, he sent out _“Hello! Who are you, and may we meet up?”_

There was no response for about a minute. Then an urgent-sounding message _“Peter’s place, OK? And hurry!”_ Then, again, silence.


	14. Some New Friends

All the time since Michael had sent out that thought, Rachel (his Rachel) had been staring at him, seemingly lost for words. Finally she found her voice. In words, **“You utter bloody fool!”**

Michael was completely taken aback. He had naturally assumed that Rachel would be as eager as he was, to make contact with other groups who could send thought-shapes. “But—” he began.

“Don’t you understand?” continued Rachel, interrupting him. “Whoever those people are, they’re not going to find it easy, making contact with a group like us. Certainly not with us being refugees from the west! Maybe they’re happy as they are—whoever they are. Maybe they don’t want to join in any madcap adventures like we’re forced into. If they’re not under threat themselves, why expose them to it? And there you go and blow it all with your impetuous message! If you ask me, they’ll maintain silence now until they’re convinced we’re out of range...”

“I still think we should go and seek them out,” said Michael. “The first thought-shapers we’ve made contact with, outside of our own community and the Zealand woman! Surely that’s got to be a ‘must’!”

“I would have half agreed with you, at least until you burst out with that message. Now I doubt if we’ll find them. Thanks to you! We could waste days—weeks even—looking for them. I vote we go on. There may be others...”

“Or there may not,” insisted Michael. “Who can tell? How can we possibly pass this group up?”

“Give me one good reason why we should hunt down this group,” said Rachel, stubbornly.

“OK. I’ll give you two. Firstly, our money isn’t going to last out. I should have told you before, but I thought I’d spare you this further anxiety. Any help we can get, on that front, would be most welcome. Secondly, what do we do once we get to Rigo? Commandeer a ship, with just the two of us to sail it? Wait against all hope for Mark and Stephanie to show up—and remember Stephanie doesn’t actually want to leave Labrador! Take passage on a ship? Remember what Uncle Axel told David: all the shipping now goes South, which isn’t the direction we want to take. We want to go East, and according to Uncle Axel again, no-one knows what happens if you go East: either the sea goes on for ever, or you fall off the edge!

“Well, we know that neither of those things are true, but sailors are jolly superstitious chaps. Do you imagine we’ll easily persuade them to sail East, when even we don’t know what lies on the other side? All we have are the names ‘Europe’ and ‘Africa’—and that’s not much to go on. They could be all Badlands....”

Michael fell silent. He could see that Rachel was weighing up the options. After a long time, she said: “All right then. If you think you can find these people, I’ll give you three days. But no more. Every day we waste is making it more and more dangerous. Have you any idea which way to go?”

Michael was relieved to be ‘back in charge’, so to speak. He said, “North, to start with. That’s definitely where the messages were coming from. We need to find a trail heading north. My guess is, they were about fifteen miles away: assuming their strength of projection is similar to ours. After that, we’ll have to seek out someone called ‘Peter’ or someone called ‘Rachel’—probably in the same village. And we know Rachel can send thought-shapes: presumably this ‘Peter’ can too. Not much to go on, I’m afraid.”

“Is there a trail leading north?” asked Rachel.

“Not that I’ve seen, but there is one marked on the map: look! Lucky that we haven’t gone off the edge of it yet. Let’s go on slowly, looking for it: it’ll be a path of some sort—probably a fairly small one.”

They continued slowly for about three miles, without seeing any path. They saw a village ahead: Michael decided to ride on ahead and ask its name—then he could get their bearings.

When he returned he was not encouraging. “It’s not on our map, so I think we must be off the edge. But there’s definitely a path to the north somewhere, if you’ve copied the map right! Shall we go back a few miles, see if we missed it?”

Rachel was less than enthusiastic about this, but she agreed that they ought to go back—at least three or four miles before the spot where they’d first heard the thought-shapes. They cantered quickly back to the spot where they had camped and first heard the messages. Picking their way slowly back from there on, they continued another two miles, then Michael gave a shout of joy.

“Here it is! Look, just beside this stream there’s a faint trail. Not surprising we missed it—but then we weren’t looking for a turning north at the time. So—do we go on it?”

Rachel nodded. They picked their way carefully along the trail for about a hundred yards: then it suddenly left the stream at a bend and rose to more level ground further on, becoming a much wider and more negotiable trail, still heading north as far as Michael could make out. He had the compass out for the first time since they left Curkajak. He found—as Peter the storekeeper had warned him—that it didn’t perform very well: it seemed to work better if he tilted it towards the north. He tried to remember some of what he’d learnt at school: something about ‘Angle of Dip’. He guessed that Labrador was rather close to the North Magnetic Pole. Whatever—the compass would serve.

“This path still heads north, and still on the map, thank goodness! You’ve marked two villages on it at about the fifteen-mile mark. Could be either of those, maybe? Any ideas?”

Rachel had no ideas. But she said, she was fairly certain there hadn’t been any others she’d missed out.

“Then we’ll try the one to the West first. Called Liapik, so it seems.”

They put their horses into a fast trot—to their relief the horses seemed to be keen on it. It took less than two hours before they came to a fork in the road: they guessed that the left-hand fork did indeed lead to Liapik. Sure enough, a mile or two further on they reached a small village.

Michael dismounted and made his way to the village store. Quickly, he asked the question “is there anyone called Peter here?”

“Peter, eh? Let me think. Sure you don’t mean Peter who runs one of the stores, back at Curkajak?”

“No, not that one. We’ve just come from him, as it happens. No, I mean a different Peter: in this village or close by?”

“Hmmm...yes, now I remember: there’s an old chap called Peter, lives in a small cottage about a mile beyond the village. White-painted cottage, on the right...”

Thanking the shopkeeper, he re-joined Rachel and they rode on, quickly finding the cottage in question. Michael knocked at the door, and a young woman answered. “Is this Peter’s house?” he asked.

“Yes it is. Do you want him? I should warn you, he’s not very well today. Dad!” she called up the stairs.

“Wait a minute. Do you know someone called Rachel?”

“Can’t say as I do. Never heard the name, not here. Do you still want Dad?”

“No, don’t bother. I think we’ve gone the wrong way. Sorry to trouble you.” And with that he re-joined Rachel and they turned back towards the village.

“Must be the other village then. Called Ragnarok, of all names. Let’s try that one, at least.”

They rode back through the village and came back to the fork. Taking the other branch, they followed it for a while. Clearly Ragnarok was further along the way, because they rode at least five or six miles before they came to a collection of houses. In the middle of the village, they stopped.

“If it’s not this one, I’m turning round. Going to try the shop again?” asked Rachel.

“No,” said Mike. “If they’re not here, I’ll do as you say. But let’s at least try it this way.” And with that he put out a firm but medium-strength thought-shape: _“Are you there Peter?”_

There was a slight pause. Then a man’s voice answered _“thought you’d find us out. Oh well, seeing as you’re here, you’d better come in. Fourth house on the left, green door. Just knock.”_

They went up to the door and knocked. A tall man, slightly built and with greying hair, answered the door. He beckoned them in and shut the door. Inside were two other men and a woman. They introduced themselves:

“ _I’m Rachel,”_ began the woman, who was tall, dark-haired and slightly plump, apparently in her mid-40s. _“I understand you’re also called Rachel. Oh dear! That’s awkward. Tell you what—since I’m quite a lot taller than you, I don’t mind being called ‘Big Rachel’. Do you want to be called ‘Little Rachel’?”_

“ _I think I’d rather be just ‘Rachel’, if you don’t mind.”_

“ _So be it. Anyway, this is my husband Tim,”_ indicating the man standing next to her. He was slightly shorter, also with dark hair, slightly less plump, and also apparently in his mid-40s. He acknowledged their greeting. _“Peter you’ve already met,” continued Big Rachel, “and this is Peter’s son Justin,”_ pointing to a young, fairly muscular man in his late 20s.

“ _Is this all of you?”_ asked Michael, looking around, after Peter and Justin had each acknowledged their presence.

“Yes,” put in Peter, in words. “No: in words please, now we’ve got over the introductions, if you don’t mind. Were you expecting more?”

“No. Well, yes really. I don’t know. Whatever—it’s good to meet up with more of ‘us’. I was beginning to think that we two—well we three, actually, or so we hope, there’s another one of us somewhere out there—were the only ones left in Labrador.”

“Well, we’re happy to prove you wrong. Though it took a lot of soul-searching before we decided to let you in on us,” continued Peter. “But in the end, we decided to trust you. As you can see, we’re all quite a bit older than you—but it’s good to know there is young blood around to carry on the strain.”

While Peter was speaking, Rachel couldn’t help glancing at Big Rachel’s clothing. She was wearing a loose blouse, slacks reaching to halfway down her calves, and stout leather shoes—and there was _no Cross_ on her blouse. This was the first time Rachel had seen a grown woman not wearing the Cross: Stephanie had been properly ‘adorned’ when she arrived at Rachel’s farm. Even the women she had seen at Kipalup and Curkajak had all been wearing the Cross.

Big Rachel caught Rachel’s glance and sensed her curiosity. She laughed. “You’ve been noticing I don’t wear the Cross, I think? It’s a far less common practice in these parts, and entirely optional. Different from your folk, who make it an obligation, I guess: a token of Woman’s subservience to Man, some say! Here, some women do; some women don’t. Both Tim and I agree that I’m not the sort of person who needs to wear one. But it’s entirely up to you, whether you continue wearing the Cross or not.”

Rachel said nothing. These remarks about ‘subservience’ were troubling her, and new thoughts were coming into her mind. She looked down at her own bust, with its Cross, but remained silent and passive. Something that needed to be discussed with Michael...

Michael broke in. “Tell us a bit more about yourselves,” he asked.

“Before we do that, you, as the guests, ought to give us your story. I’m sure there’s lots you can tell us. Begin at the beginning—I might even be able to help out a bit on that front. Starts at Waknuk, doesn’t it—?”

“ _How the hell did you know that?”_ put in Michael and Rachel simultaneously, involuntarily bursting into thought-shapes. 

“Aha. I thought as much. It’s a long story, and it begins with a little girl—”

“Petra!” Rachel suddenly exclaimed.

“Ah yes. We never actually caught her name, but we learned a lot about her—and about your community. I reckon she must be around eight years old...”

“Nearly,” corrected Michael.

“Oh well, seven then. Anyway, we remember when she first burst forth upon us—and presumably the whole of Labrador and beyond—about a year and a half ago. We couldn’t make out much of it, but she seemed to have fallen into a lake or something, and was calling for help...”

“That’s right. David and Rosalind rescued her. From the river. That was the first time we discovered her extraordinary powers.”

“David and Rosalind, eh? Two more of your group, I reckon,” went on Peter. “But never mind them for now, I’ll continue. There was nothing for about a year, and then all of a sudden another distress call of some sort. Something about a dead pony? Went on for most of the day.”

Michael and Rachel both nodded. They had both been present at the scene.

“And after that, there were more messages of some sort. Didn’t make too much sense—as you might expect from a girl of just eight—seven. We heard the name LABRADOR being spelled out, also some references to Waknuk, which we gathered was where she came from—and a mysterious place called ‘Sealand’ which was apparently a long way away...”

“ ‘Zealand’,” corrected Rachel.

“All right, Zealand then—which we guessed was some way outside Labrador. And to the West. And we got the impression that all you Waknuk community of thought-shapers were fleeing _en masse_ for this Zealand place. Anyway, the messages from Petra stopped some months ago, so we assumed you were indeed on your way. Until you two hailed us, that is. Apparently fleeing _East_. And in some sort of a hurry.

“So I think you’d better tell us your story now. From the beginning.”


	15. Michael's Account

Michael decided to pin his faith in their new friends. What else could they do? They desperately needed some help, and if there were any people in Labrador they could trust, it had to be these people. They sat down and began. He told their story at length, beginning from the time they had first become aware of their thought-shape abilities, as children. He didn’t make any mention of Sophie—at first. But he mentioned David and Rosalind, and David’s sister Petra, whom they already knew about of course. He mentioned Sally and Katherine, and how a surprise attack had been launched: an attack which had been intended to round up those two girls, plus David, Rosalind, and Petra, simultaneously. By sheer good fortune, helped no doubt by a bit of fumble by the authorities at the Waknuk end, David, Rosalind and Petra had got away—although the other two girls had been captured, tortured, and probably killed...

Upon hearing this, Peter and the others gave a deep sigh. “We knew awful things were happening in Waknuk; what you have told us simply confirms what we already guessed. But go on.”

Michael explained that he and Rachel, and another boy called Mark, had not yet fallen under suspicion. He decided to volunteer for one of the posses sent out to pursue the fugitives, straight away. David, Rosalind and Petra had indeed been able to elude capture—until they were caught by Fringes people. Then there had come the showdown in the Fringes clearing—brought to a sudden halt by the advent of the Zealand woman...

Michael stopped. He realised that the next part—what he had seen in the clearing—would be difficult. He had kept the truth even from Rachel: merely repeating to her the fiction about ‘giant spiders’—the story which she’d already heard: which she knew was a fiction.

“All right. This is what actually happened in the Fringe clearing. The raiding parties were over-running the Fringers—putting them to flight. They were the only ones who had guns; they were well-organised. The outcome seemed inevitable, and as far as I was concerned the game was up. Whatever tricks the Sealand—sorry, ‘Zealand’—people might come up with, I wasn’t expecting David’s group, or any of the Fringes folk, to come out of it alive. Indeed, I knew that if ever I got found out, I’d be a dead man too...

“Then the Zealand flying machine arrived. David thought it was topped by some sort of ‘conical spiral’, but either his imagination got the better of him, or he didn’t really have a chance to examine it closely. What I saw looked more like four shapes a bit like the spokes of a wheel without a rim. But only three spokes to each ‘wheel’. Sited above the main body of the machine, two of them were near the front, two near the back. And when they were spun very fast, much much faster than the wheels of a cart, they created an artificial wind—I felt it when the machine left. I think the wind served to propel the machine, forward or aft, like a ship.

“As the flying ‘ship’ came in to land, thousands of light sticky threads suddenly appeared in the air above us. I can only suppose these threads came from the machine itself—I don’t see where else they could have come from. These threads slowly descended onto the clearing, and wherever they touched anything, be it human or animal, plant or rock—it stuck fast. So fast that no human strength—not even a horse’s strength—could tear it loose. I couldn’t have believed any glue could be so powerful, if I hadn’t experienced it for myself.

“The Zealand woman simply said, without any emotion, that everyone in the clearing, apart from they, would die. And that’s exactly what happened....”

Michael broke off. He felt the nausea rising in him again, for the second time since he had witnessed these scenes. He noticed that Rachel—his Rachel—was weeping in the other Rachel’s arms. Excusing himself, he went out into the next room, the kitchen apparently, found a sink, and threw up once more. Time and time again. He sensed that others of the party were also being sick, but he could not take in any more for a long time.

Peter and Justin seemed to be least affected. They sat quietly in the room they had met in, waiting for the others to join them. Eventually, after a long time, Michael came out. He looked very pale – as if he had been through a wasting illness. Apparently Tim was still throwing up, while the two Rachels were comforting one another in a corner. Evening was rapidly drawing in.

Peter took charge of the situation. “No more to be said about any of this. Except—even before you came—when the only information we got was from the disjointed accounts of the Petra child—we suspected that all was not as it seemed with these Zealand people. Not to be entirely trusted. Now we know. And we urge you to steer well clear of them.

“No more story-telling from you tonight, Michael. Question now is, what do we do about you? Well, that’s the easy bit. You and Rachel (you are together aren’t you) take Justin’s room, Justin’ll come in with me. Tim and Big Rachel will return to their home—when they’re fit enough. No more arguments tonight! There’ll be plenty to discuss tomorrow.”

Michael was mightily relieved at this suggestion. And he was relieved, in a way, that Rachel had expressed herself in tears. So much better than bottling up her emotions! He knew that, now there was a tacit understanding between them, the subject was closed.

For almost the first time since they left Waknuk, he set to wondering about David and Rosalind. And Petra! There had been not a squeak out of her since just as they were approaching Zealand. Oh well, they would have to look after themselves, he supposed. Probably Petra had been taught to curb her over-reaching powers to some extent. Maybe her ‘training’ had started even during the long flight. Otherwise she could have easily deafened the entire population of Zealand.

And Zealand, for all the terrible things they had witnessed, still seemed to be the safest place for a thought-shaper to be.

But not for him, and not for Rachel. He had known that from the start. They would need to seek solace elsewhere. As he pondered these thoughts, he gradually nodded off to sleep.

It was broad daylight when he awoke. He was alone. He realised he must have been asleep for many hours. As he shook himself awake, a thought shape burst in upon him:

“ _If you’re awake, come and join us for breakfast. Rachel is already here.”_ He guessed it was Peter. Quickly dressing himself, he went into the kitchen and joined Peter, Justin and Rachel at the table.

“Now we’re all awake, it’s words only, here. Understand? Yes, I think you already understand that! Safer. You and your friends were rather reckless, using thought-shapes so often, especially in a frontier region like Waknuk. Not really surprising you got found out—it would have happened sooner or later.”

The word ‘frontier’ reminded Michael of something he’d been meaning to ask, ever since they arrived here. “Peter—Justin—what happens to Deviations here?”

“We were wondering when you’d come up with that. Well, there are far fewer Deviations here than there are in Waknuk or Kentak. That much should be evident to you. Maybe not so many as one per year, in any one village...”

“One per year!”

“More or less. Not what you were taught in Waknuk or Kentak, I reckon.”

“No—indeed! We learnt that Deviations were spread over the whole of Labrador. Even at school in Kentak, that’s what I was taught.”

“Yes—well I reckon that’s just what the people of Waknuk wanted you to believe, was it not?” continued Peter. “Last thing they’d want was lots of people drifting off to the ‘safer’ east—not when there were farms to work and Fringes people to fight off! So it’s hardly surprising that they put out the story that all of Labrador was the same.

“Truth is, this far east, hardly anyone here bothers much about Deviations. If they’re little things, we just let them go. Quite often the gene pool (don’t ask me to explain what those words mean – yet!) sorts them out: a parent _with_ a minor mutation can give birth to a child _without_ the mutation. Sometimes it takes two or three generations to sort out. I don’t suppose you lot had the chance to test that out...”

Michael said nothing at first, but he suddenly thought of Stephanie—formerly Sophie. If only! He wondered if what they ‘did’ to her could in some way be reversed...

Then Michael cut in: “But the Law! Doesn’t the Law apply to the whole of Labrador? That Offences—animal Deviations—must be destroyed, that human Deviations (like us) must be sterilised? Isn’t that Law set down by the Government in Rigo?”

“Oh yes: the Law. The Government had to enact such a Law, to appease the hardliners out West. Otherwise they’d have been facing a widespread revolt—secession even. Fact is, the Law is very little carried out in Eastern parts, nor in Rigo itself. Your backwoods folk don’t know that. Of course, if a human Deviation has to be sent to Rigo itself, for the operation, they’ll do it, and send the person back west. Maintaining the fiction, so to speak.”

Michael thought about Sophie’s story, of how she’d been treated in Rigo. But Peter continued:

“So, you see, we’re all pretty well settled here. Very little threat. OK, Justin has several girlfriends—no-one he’s really serious about yet—and none of them is a thought-shaper.” Justin nodded at this; he had hardly spoken during the meal. “Well, we’ll address that problem if and when we come to it” (Michael thought about Anne and Alan, and the disastrous end to their marriage...). “I’m a widower, and Tim and Rachel are already married—though without children, yet.”

“Your late wife? If I may ask?” said Michael.

“She just died. Fairly young, just after Justin was born. No, don’t worry, I’m used to that sort of questioning. It was quite some time ago...”

Peter paused, thinking about what he had to say next.

“As I said a moment ago, we’re well settled here. Why should any of us want to move, just to serve your ends?”


	16. More Frustration

Michael was thunderstruck. He had no idea he had put out this idea as a thought-shape, but there was no getting away from it: he had indeed been contemplating: how on earth to persuade these people to embark on a hazardous journey with them, merely to suit Rachel’s and his purpose in trying to secure a ship to take them—where? But evidently he had broadcast the thought at large. He could think of nothing to say. Nor could Rachel. Peter had some sympathy for them:

“I sense that this is painful news for you, my friends. I guessed that you were going to ask at least some of us to join you on your quest. Let us just say: the whole idea of us abandoning our houses, of coming with you, on a 200-mile journey to Rigo—and there to help you secure a ship to take you East—East to places very little is known about—perhaps even to board ship with you! When we are safe and secure here. Surely you must see that the whole idea is quite preposterous...

“But we’ll leave that matter for now. At least until Tim and Rachel—sorry, Big Rachel—arrive; they need to at least have a say. They’re busy at present, but should be here around mid-day. We need to listen to the rest of your story—how you got away from that place of death.”

“What do you do for a living?” asked Rachel, speaking from the first time.

Justin took this as his cue, glad to get away from the awkward topics they’d been discussing up till then. “I go out hunting; Dad writes books,” he replied laconically.

“Eh?” said Rachel.

“Oh—I suppose you want more than that? I go out with some of the others in the village: we go after moose, caribou, seals, bears, that sort of thing. For food, furs and the like. I’m often away for some days at a time. With the weather closing in, it’ll be seals on the next trip. Dad collects data and writes books, mostly about Labrador and its history, as far back as it goes. Almost certainly, he’s written stuff you won’t have seen back in Waknuk or Kentak.”

“And Tim and Rachel?”

“Tim comes with me on some of the hunting trips, but he also spends time at home stretching the skins we bring back. Rachel sort of looks after the house, both at their place and here. Does the cooking and all.”

They asked a bit more about the ‘family’ they had found. It was all very peaceful and well-ordered. Once again Michael was wondering whether they’d be better off staying here, in a ‘safe’ part of Labrador, now that it seemed pretty certain they’d shaken off the pursuit. Indeed it seemed unlikely that their pursuers had even found their turning off towards Kipalup, where they had first met Beth. And she could be relied upon to put them off the scent. The chances of them discovering two fugitives hidden away in a tiny community like Ragnarok seemed—well, remote.

But Rachel—his Rachel—was still not convinced. She seemed determined that they should at least take on Rigo and enquire about ships, come what may.

Just as they were still arguing about it, the door opened and Tim and Big Rachel came in. Tim started off by apologising for his unfortunate turn the evening before. “Sorry about that. Here am I, all used to dressing up and curing skins and all that, handling dead animals all the time, then I hear about what Michael’s told us about, it just made my skin crawl and then I couldn’t help myself...”

After mutual expressions of commiseration, Big Rachel proclaimed that lunch was ready to be served, so could they possibly hold back on further discussions until later? To this they all agreed.

Afterwards, Peter said, Michael should continue the story, starting from the point where the flying ‘ship’ had settled in the clearing. “But we’ll leave out the spiders’ webs. Once is enough!”

So Michael began, hesitantly: “Well, I probably had a better look at that flying ‘ship’, as it was finally taking off, with the others aboard. I mentioned those four wind-making wheels on top: but they couldn’t have made the ship fly by themselves: certainly it couldn’t have been lifted off the ground by them—not if I still know any of the mechanics I was taught at school! I think they were only for propulsion: to move the machine fore and aft. The ‘lift’ was evidently supplied by hydrogen bags within the body: that way the ship could probably coast long distances without re-fuelling. I learnt all about hydrogen—how light it is, how bags could be filled with the gas and then made to lift into the air—back at school we learnt this. I don’t see any other way a machine like that could reach us from Zealand. But there’s much I don’t understand here.”

“I know what hydrogen is,” put in Peter. “Doesn’t it catch fire very easily, and burn very fiercely? Wouldn’t that be a hazard to the ship?”

“I’m sure the Zealanders must have considered that risk. I suppose they’d taken special measures to minimise it.

“Anyway, I went down to the river and was sick. Then I forded the river at a place where it was fairly shallow, and followed the path away from the clearing, about a mile. To my great relief, I found a horse abandoned by its dead rider, that seemed to be uninjured. I returned to the river, and then we both mounted and—”

Peter interrupted him at this point. “‘ **We** ’? You said nothing about another person until now. You were the only survivor, were you not?—apart from those carried off in the flying ship. So who’s this ‘we’?”

Michael realised that he had slipped up. Of course, using thought-shapes, it would have been impossible to conceal Sophie’s existence for long—that’s simply not possible in thought-shapes. But in words, he’d been trying to keep Sophie out of the equation—mainly because that would enable him to steer clear of stuff he still found embarrassing, like the ‘washtub’ incident. But how he was going to work out the return journey to Waknuk as a solo traveller? He had no idea.

After a long period of silence, Peter came to the rescue. “Look, Michael, we already know there’s more to your story than what you’ve told us. You picked up someone in the Fringes and took him or her back with you. Clearly that person wasn’t a thought-shaper, or you wouldn’t have been so cagey about it. But it looks like they came from the Fringes. That makes them a Mutant. We’ve already established that your community comes down heavily on Mutants—far more so than we do. That would explain things. Right so far?”

Michael could only nod.

“OK. Now I’ve been careful not to mention the sex of this supposed person so far, but I’m guessing it’s a woman?”

Once again Michael nodded: he realised he was no match for Peter’s insight.

“So—I’m guessing here, but I’m thinking there might have been something between you two—something you wished to keep secret—too embarrassing perhaps: you and a Mutant—?”

“NO!” cried Michael, interrupting, thankful that at last he had caught Peter out in a wrong assumption. “No! It wasn’t like that at all. OK, I’d better tell the whole story over again, filling in the gaps. Rachel already knows,” for Rachel was blushing prettily, “so it won’t embarrass her too much. I hope!” Rachel winked. “I really need to go right back to my childhood—well, David’s childhood really, because I didn’t learn the details until some time later. It starts with David, as a ten-year-old boy, playing at a place we called the Bank....”

And so Michael continued, telling of David’s chance meeting with Sophie... “that’s not her name now, but I’ll continue...” He told how Sophie, a little girl a bit younger than David, got her foot stuck between some rocks, she made strenuous but fruitless efforts to extricate herself without David’s help; eventually she gave in and implored him to keep her big secret.

She had six toes on each foot.

David accompanied Sophie back to her parent’s house, where he was made to promise not to reveal her secret—and where he discovered that Sophie’s mother had some of the thought-shaping powers herself—though very primitively and she could not communicate using them. “At that time David, and the rest of us, didn’t really understand the phenomenon ourselves. So we weren’t as cautious then, as we’ve become since.”

Anyway, David and Sophie became fast childhood friends for a while after that. Until they were found out. By pure chance, another boy came upon them when they were playing barefoot in the stream, and he noticed the six-toed imprint. David and Sophie fled to Sophie’s parents, who immediately decided to pack up everything and flee the district; at the same time begging David to cover for their flight as long as possible by staying in the house overnight.

David did that, but next morning on returning to his own house he was waylaid by his father and the Inspector, who already knew something of the story. David did his best to keep the secret, despite enduring a savage flogging: but to no avail: later that day the fugitives were caught. They were taken to Kentak where Sophie was separated from her parents, taken to Rigo for the sterilisation operation, then banished to the Fringes. Of her parents no further word was heard.

“And so, it appears, this Sophie then drops out of the story, until she is re-discovered by the thought-shapers, some years later,” suggested Peter. “Am I right?”

“Yes, more or less,” admitted Michael.

“Hmmm. Interesting. You say David was very attached to Sophie, when they were together? Despite knowing she was a Deviant; despite all the warning notices in his own household?”

“It certainly looks like it.”

“And when she was captured, David suffered a flogging—a very brutal flogging by all accounts, if I’ve understood his father’s character here. Yet he still didn’t betray the fugitives. You say they were caught purely by chance, many miles away. Then the next thing David does is tell his thought-shape companions the whole story—a story he’d carefully concealed from them up till then. Why just then?”

“I suppose he reckoned, there was no point in keeping it secret any longer,” suggested Michael.

“I think there’s more to it than that... I think up to that point, David was head-over-heels in love with Sophie. As far as ten-year-olds can be ‘in love’, of course. Then when she was cruelly snatched from him, he felt some remorse, of course—but it soon became supplanted by a stronger instinct: that of survival. Sophie could conveniently be sacrificed. From then on, the needs of the thought-shapers suddenly became the prime imperative. For David, and for the other people in his group—including Rachel and yourself—”

Michael could contain himself no longer. “How can you possibly make assumptions like that? How dare you! You, who have never met any of the others: just Rachel and me... I, who have known David ever since we were children ... I who met Sophie and escorted her back to Waknuk ... dammit, I even _slept_ with the woman....”

“I thought that would come out,” said Peter. “It was obvious from what you said up till now. Don’t worry, we shan’t press for details: we aren’t running an Inquisition—but it’s certainly far better that that sort of admission comes from you, rather than being forced out of you by us.

“Suffice to say, you accompanied Sophie to Waknuk, and at some point there was a romantic liaison. But clearly it was not a lasting relationship. Listen, Michael, and you too Rachel—the more we know about you, the better we can decide how best to help you.

“So—apart from the dalliance with Sophie, was there anything else of import during your return to Waknuk?”

“Not much—except that we had to kill a man just before we got to Waknuk itself. Dammit, he shot our horse first—and the bullet would have come straight at me if the horse hadn’t got it first. And it was Sophie who actually killed the man. I reckon she’s had practice—which I haven’t...”

“All right. I’ll say no more. So you came to Waknuk—and I’m guessing that’s where you were reunited with Rachel. And by that time Sophie had more or less informed you that it was all over between you and her. Remarkably resilient, that girl! First David, and now you...”

“As I’m sure you understand, there couldn’t have been anything between David and Sophie. Dammit, they were only ten years old! Why the innuendo?” Peter said nothing. “But I think there were others before me,” added Michael. “Sophie mentioned someone called the Spider-man—Gordon—whom she said she slept with, back in the Fringes. When he was killed, she sort of latched on to me...”

“We’re learning quite a lot about Sophie, aren’t we? Are there any more details you’ve left out? Like—say—Sophie beginning to acquire the power of thought-shapes herself?”


	17. More on Labrador

This bombshell was more than Michael could stomach. He remained mute—though of course silence can be revealing. He looked around at the others in the room, but not one of them was willing to come to his rescue. He knew it would be he—and only he—who could answer that question.

In the end he weakly muttered, as before: “How do you come to that conclusion?” But he knew there was some truth in what Peter was saying. “Do you have behind-thinks, like Petra did?”

“ ‘Behind-thinks’? Ah, I think I get it. Thought-shapes you’re not supposed to catch, yes? No, not in the way that Petra did, at any rate. Though maybe my powers are more developed than some others’ perhaps? No, I think my only advantage is that of having lived a good deal longer than any of you—lived in relative safety, as you can see—of having learned in all the long years how to ration my use of the dangerous thought-shapes to the absolute minimum. As you can also see. My powers may indeed be more developed than any of yours, but used sparingly.

“But continue. I take it you reached Waknuk without further mishap. And were reunited with Rachel here.”

“Yes. We skirted well clear of Waknuk itself—I mean the original farmhouse after which the village was named. For obvious reasons. Rachel’s house is about a mile to the west, and had not yet then fallen under suspicion. When we got there, we found a surprise: well two surprises really. Rachel’s Mum, Amelia, appeared to have a bit of the thought-shape powers herself—though only in a rudimentary fashion, without the ability to transmit or receive herself. But she already knew about us, and she knew about Sophie. It was she who suggested we change her name to Stephanie—so that’s what she’s been called, ever since.”

“Good choice,” said Peter. “Not too different, but enough to put pursuers off the scent hopefully. I take it she approves of the new name...”

“Absolutely. But the second surprise was even more unexpected. Mark, the last of our Waknuk group, turned up out of the blue. Mark, who we thought was dead! Apparently he’d been ill and had lost some of his powers, but he was very much alive.”

“Well, that is a surprise!” put in Peter. Michael waited for him to say more, but that appeared to be all he had to contribute.

“Indeed,” continued Michael. “Once he realised he wasn’t getting through, he decided to contact us in person, as soon as he was fit enough. He arrived a day after us. Some of his thought-shape powers are indeed coming back to him, though it’s a slow process.”

“Where is he now?”

“That’s one of the problems. We don’t quite know. Since it was dangerous even for him to remain in the Waknuk area, he was going to wait a while, then follow us to Kentak. And maybe even as far as Rigo. With Sophie—Stephanie—for company. They seem to have become good friends.”

“ ‘Good friends’?” interposed Peter, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yes. Just ‘friends’. Anyway, they contacted us before we left Kentak. Since then—nothing.”

“Well, there’s a remote possibility they’ve turned north, just as you did. But unlikely: unless they were facing close pursuit, as you were, they’re more likely to have kept to the road direct to Rigo. We can’t reach that far, in thought-shapes. Someone could make a trip south, see if they can contact Mark on the road. But I don’t hold out much hope...

“And meanwhile: what do we do with you two? Any plans?”

“We want to continue on to Rigo as soon as possible,” put in Rachel. “If you won’t send anyone to accompany us, we’ll go on our own. No argument.”

“No. I’d strongly advise against that—sorry! Winter is fast approaching and the weather will be bitterly cold and stormy. Even if you make it to Rigo, there’s little chance you’ll find a ship willing to put to sea at this time of year. Whatever you’re planning at Rigo, it’ll just have to wait till the spring. So my advice is: stay with us for a few weeks. We’ll be glad of the company, all of us. You can help with the farm—I didn’t tell you we have a farm, too, did I? Just a couple of fields on the edge of the village, we grow a few vegetables and some wheat and oats there. And stable some of our own horses, as well as a few from others in the village—and yours, of course. Also we keep a few pigs and chickens. And meanwhile I have my book to finish...”

“Your book?”

“Yes. Didn’t Justin mention, I write books? I’m hoping to finish the one I’m working on, in the next few weeks.”

“What’s it called?” asked Michael, who remembered the adventure stories he’d found and enjoyed, in the library at Kentak, during his schooldays.

“ _Pre-Tribulation Communities in Labrador_. A pretty dull sort of title, you’ll admit, even for a history work. By the way, I don’t like the expression ‘Old People’ very much. I’ve been researching quite a lot, and I know plenty of things you won’t have been taught at school, Michael. For example, I’d heard of the Waknuk community even before Petra’s little outburst. There was a town at that place before Tribulation, but it was called Wabush, not Waknuk. No record of any settlement where Kentak now stands, though.”

Michael and Rachel were both interested now. “And Rigo?” asked Rachel.

“The name seems to be derived from a tiny pre-Tribulation settlement called Rigolet, out on the coast—but the present-day Rigo isn’t quite in the same place as Rigolet, which was completely inaccessible except by boat—when the sea wasn’t frozen.”

“Was the sea frozen often, back then? And what sort of people could live here?”

“Yes. And nowhere near as many as Labrador’s population, now. As far as I can work out, there were two distinct tribes in this area. One of them was similar to present-day Labradoreans, but they didn’t farm the land. It was too cold. Instead they grew trees for timber and mined the rocks for minerals. And did some fishing. You’ll be surprised to learn that they spoke two distinct languages. One was like the one we use today: English, but the other was quite different. French, it was called—and it originated in Europe...”

“Europe! We’ve heard about that. One of the places we want to get to.”

“Well, I wish you luck—if Europe still exists. And further north, here in Labrador and the islands further north, there seems to have lived a tribe who could endure the cold far better than we could. They too had their own language, called Inuit. They passed their lives mainly in fishing and hunting the seal. I believe some of their descendants still live in the far north of Labrador. And many towns and villages are still named in the original Inuit language—or something very similar to it.”

A sudden thought occurred to Rachel. “And what about the name of this village? ‘Ragnarok’?” she asked, remembering the name she had copied onto the map.

“Well, that’s one of my puzzles—but perhaps my most interesting discovery. Seems to be an exception. Although it looks like a Labradorean word, all my research seems to indicate that it isn’t. Not an English, not a French, not an Inuit word. Certainly not derived from any local pre-Tribulation settlement—if there ever was one here: evidence says not. One source indicates that it’s simply the word for ‘Tribulation’ in some unknown, forgotten language. Perhaps an early settler, a speaker of that language, made the first homestead here shortly after Tribulation itself, and wanted to remember. But I’m more inclined to believe another legend, which says, it’s the name of one of the gods who actually brought Tribulation down upon us.”

“ **One** of the Gods? But we’ve all been taught that there’s only ever been one God, sometimes referred to as ‘Lord’, sometimes as ‘Jehovah’—and that He doesn’t have any other names...”

“Aha. Yes, that’s what you would have been taught in Waknuk and Kentak, no doubt. No: the pre-Tribulation folks, around the world, had many different gods, all with different names and different characters....”

Both Michael and Rachel found this hard to digest. It went against all the teaching they’d had, and it made them uncomfortable. Peter sensed their uneasiness.

“Some things you learn about won’t be easy. I know that. But let’s leave it for now. I’d like to show you both around the house, the village, and our fields. Then I’ll leave it to you to think about staying for a while. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to continue on your trip to Rigo in time.”


	18. Winter at Ragnarok

As they were walking through the village with Peter, Tim, and Big Rachel, both Michael and Rachel felt uneasy about Peter’s revelation—if there was any chance of it being true. Even though both of them had despised the strict religious orthodoxy delivered by the likes of Joseph Strorm, the concept of ‘different’ gods—maybe with equal validity to the one they’d been taught about, was something difficult to accept. For a while they were silent.

“This is our house,” announced Big Rachel presently, as they reached a small cottage. “Won’t you please come in for a moment? It’s smaller than Peter’s and Justin’s: that’s why when we meet up it’s usually in their house. But it’s cosy enough for the two of us.”

So they were taken for a quick tour of Tim and Rachel’s home: one floor only, just a living room, bedroom, and kitchen with a big fireplace. They had no bathroom but a tin bath propped up against the kitchen wall proclaimed its utility—as did the outside privy. But the cottage was very neat and tidy—testifying to Big Rachel’s house-proud sensibilities. In the back yard there were several skins of familiar animals—no Deviations amongst them, it seemed—stretched out on frames to dry and cure.

Tim and Big Rachel remained at their home. As the others returned to the street, the sun was setting. Peter suggested there was just enough daylight for them to do a quick tour of the fields at the back of the row of cottages. He pointed out those that belonged to him and Justin: a few rows of cabbages and potatoes, the rest dug over and awaiting sowing of next season’s crops. Then they returned to Peter’s and Justin’s home in the twilight.

“Dinner in a few minutes,” announced Justin. “I’m afraid neither my Dad nor I are as good cooks as Rachel, but we do our best. Hope you’ll be satisfied.”

As indeed they were. A generous helping of roast pork, with cabbage, potatoes, and gravy, followed by a big apple pie, which Rachel had to admit to herself, despite her cookery skills, that she couldn’t have bettered.

After dinner Peter entertained them with more details that he had discovered about the history of Labrador. He spoke some short sentences in the ‘French’ language which he had learned in the course of his research. Both Michael and Rachel were baffled by the incomprehensible words, but Justin nodded smugly and then continued the speech, clearly even more fluent in the language than his father. Then they proceeded to teach Michael and Rachel some words of the language. “Just for fun,” remarked Justin, “but who knows? If you really do cross the sea to Europe, you may meet up with the original French speakers. If they still speak that language...”

Eventually Michael and Rachel were sent off to bed. Peter warned them that next day they would have to come to the decision: whether they were to stay with them over the winter, or press on—but he repeated his urging them to stay.

They woke up the next morning to see heavy snowfall outside, which was already settling on the ground. In the circumstances, they needed no further persuasion to come to the decision to remain put until the weather turned more favourable. As Rachel whispered to Michael, before breakfast, “If we can’t trust these people, who **can** we trust?” Michael remembered how they had trusted Beth, and how it had almost come unstuck. They had got away, nonetheless, without more than a little embarrassment.

Peter explained that the cold weather with snowfalls usually didn’t last more than six weeks—after then it would turn warmer again. And, to their great delight, Peter announced that he was thinking of coming with them, part of the way. He had been to Rigo several times—researching for his books as he explained—and he expected to complete his work in progress just as the snows were melting. With a little help, he added. He suggested that both Michael and Rachel could both ‘earn their keep’ by helping around the house: Michael helping Justin outdoors, the work at present consisting mainly of feeding and looking after the animals, and cutting firewood, whilst Rachel would look after the house indoors, and help Peter with his book.

But Rachel wouldn’t hear of this.

“You may think I’m just a weak little girl, but think again! I may be small but I’m pretty strong—and I’ve done plenty of hard physical work on the farm back in Waknuk. Let Michael help you with your book—he’s the more educated of us, after all—while I work with Justin outside.”

And she was as good as her word. She proved to be excellent at handling the axe and the saw. On the rare, short hunting trips in which she accompanied Justin (much to his astonishment), she also showed real skill with the gun and the bow and arrows. Meanwhile Michael, with growing fascination, was learning all kinds of unheard-of facts about Labrador and the surrounding countries, as he assisted Peter in sorting through his notes and writing up fair copies. Peter had a special interest in the lakes of Labrador.

“Labrador used to be a land with thousands of lakes,” he explained. “Most of them have gone now, but there are still traces. When you passed Curkajak, you saw the lake which extends many miles to the north of the village. That lake is a survivor from pre-Tribulation days, and Curkajak is built on a pre-Tribulation settlement called ‘Churchak’, apparently—though whether it was so named because there was a notable church there, I don’t know.

“And many miles to the southwest of here—further than Waknuk, in fact: it was possibly in your ‘Wild country’, but maybe not the part you visited—there used to be a fascinating lake, almost a perfect ring-shape. Most of it’s gone now, but you can still make out the depression which it occupied. From what I can find out, it was created when a huge mass of rock hit the Earth, many millions of years ago. Lake Manag, it seems to have been called, though information is sketchy.

“Before Tribulation, most of the lakes in Labrador used to freeze over completely in the winter. Of course, they very rarely do so nowadays.”

“Yes: we learnt at school about Labrador having been a very cold land. So Tribulation changed all that. But no-one seemed to know how or why. Have you any ideas?”

“You learned about carbon dioxide at school, didn’t you? But I don’t suppose they told you what happens when a lot of carbon dioxide escapes into the atmosphere. Well, there’s a theory going round—not everyone believes it, though—that Tribulation was attended by widespread forest fires all around the Earth: all those lands which still had large amounts of forest, that is. Trees are mostly carbon, and when they burn it produces huge volumes of carbon dioxide. There’s a curious effect when there’s too much carbon dioxide in the air. It causes the Earth to get warmer all around. Apparently this wasn’t a good thing: it led to the sea level rising, lots of storms, countless millions of people and animals dying, many areas which hadn’t already been devastated by Tribulation becoming desert, and uninhabitable.

“And some people even claim that this was already happening _before_ Tribulation. There were many millions, hundreds of millions even, of people in the world back then, and they were burning too much wood and coal, to heat their houses and power their horseless carriages, to grow feed for their millions of livestock animals (they ate a lot of meat), and such things. But I’m inclined to disbelieve this: I hardly imagine even the pre-Tribulation civilisations could have been so unwise and lacking in foresight.”

“So you think Tribulation was not just a single cataclysm but a whole series of unrelated events, one after the other?”

“Michael, no-one really **knows** what Tribulation was. A lot of learned men claim that, in part, it was something to do with splitting apart ‘atoms’, which they say are the smallest bits into which any sort of matter can be divided. But how on earth that could be achieved, I’ve no idea.”

Michael had much to think over in the next few weeks. He still understood little of Peter’s theories and ideas, but he became quite adept at sorting, arranging, and transcribing Peter’s work; Peter announced that as a result the book would be finished even sooner than expected. He explained that he would then have to take the manuscript to his publisher, some distance away in the direction of Rigo; then the book, after the publisher had checked it over and done some editing, would be sent off to Rigo itself to be printed. It was only in Rigo that a printing press existed, and a very precious piece of equipment it was.

Sometimes Michael swapped jobs with Rachel: going outside to help with the firewood and do some hunting with Justin. Although Rachel had well proved her stamina outside, she still welcomed the occasional break indoors. The snow was thawing fast—earlier than expected, Justin said—and they began to prepare the soil in one of the fields for sowing some crops: beans at first, Justin explained.


	19. A Sudden Danger

The snow had almost gone, and it was getting warmer. The beans had been sown, and Justin was planning to sow out about an acre of oats—mainly for animal fodder. And a litter of piglets had been born, meaning more work for Rachel—and Michael, when he could drag himself away from Peter’s study. One of the piglets was born with two tails: the first Deviation, Peter reported, that had been seen in the village for nearly eighteen months. There was none of the alarm that would have attended such an event in Waknuk. But, to avoid any arguments, they slaughtered the piglet and had a splendid roast dinner out of it.

Peter had finished his book and was anxious to get the manuscript to his publisher, some seventy miles to the east. Michael and Rachel were eager to accompany him, but already Michael was seriously wondering whether they ought to just stay in Ragnarok and settle down to the quiet rural life there. Even Rachel—once so anxious to get to Rigo—was beginning to come round to that idea. Peter had offered to lend them some money to enable them to set up their own smallholding, renting one of the empty cottages in the village.

But they hadn’t counted on one thing...

The alarm came early one morning, just as Michael and Rachel were getting up from bed.

“ _We’ve got company,”_ came in an urgent thought-shape from Tim—a rare occurrence for them now. _“Four of them; four men, with horses. Just been to our cottage, asking about any strangers seen recently. I think they’re going from house to house...”_

“ _Was one of them shortish, with long yellow hair tied in a pony-tail, by any chance?”_ put in Michael.

“As a matter of fact, yes, there was. How did you—?”

But Michael interrupted the incoming thought. “Shit!” he exclaimed, in words. “How the hell did they find us, here? Has someone peached on us?”

Peter and Justin both came bursting into their bedroom without knocking, having heard Tim’s message and Michael’s outburst; Rachel just managing in time to wrap a sheet about her, to preserve her modesty. “Quick!” hissed Peter, “Get dressed as quickly as possible, warm clothes, then into my study, hurry!”

As soon as Peter and Justin had left, Michael and Rachel dressed hurriedly and rushed into Peter’s study, the room where he wrote his books. They saw that he and Justin had pushed the heavy desk to the side of the room and rolled up the carpet, exposing the floorboards, and Justin was now carefully levering up some of the boards with his knife: an artfully disguised trapdoor. In a moment he had it open, exposing a small, dark, and dank cellar beneath, with a stepladder leading down.

“Best we can do!” Peter whispered. “We planned this hideout many years ago, just in case.... Down there quick! Sorry it’s dark, and there’s not much air—but hope you won’t be there for too long. We’ll do our best to get rid of the men. And no thought-shapes! We can’t be sure...”

Indeed they were hardly down in the cellar before Justin threw down all their clothes and other possessions after them: then he carefully closed the trapdoor, leaving them in pitch darkness. They could hear the sounds of the carpet being rolled back, and the desk being pushed back to its normal position. They were well and truly trapped, and very uncomfortable. They could hear Justin and Peter walking around above them—presumably to conceal all signs of their presence there. It was about five minutes later that they heard a thunderous knocking at the door, accompanied by shouts of “Open up!”

They could hear voices faintly from the living-room. “Inspector, Kentak district,” one of them seemed to pronounce. “We’re looking for a couple of criminal fugitives: seen any strangers around here lately? A young man and a young woman?”

“Criminals?” they heard Peter exclaim—perhaps a little louder than necessary, for their benefit. “What sort of criminals? What are they supposed to have done?”

“Murder and arson,” another voice said. A voice which Michael vaguely recognised—the farm-hand from Sally’s farm. _“Bastard!”_ he thought to himself. But the voice continued, “Suspected of having set fire to a farm in the Kentak district: burned completely to the ground, along with the people inside it Horrid business. And we also suspect them of being involved in the death of a traveller, who was found on the road alongside his horse and cart, a few miles south of there—killed by an arrow apparently. So: have you seen anybody fitting their description?” And he gave a fairly accurate description of Michael, with a much less so one of Rachel.

“Can’t say as we have—have you, Justin?” answered Peter. They did not hear Justin’s reply. The discussions dropped to a level they found more difficult to eavesdrop, but it seemed that the men were explaining themselves, not aggressively, while Peter was giving an account of his and Justin’s set-up in the house. It appeared to be quite amicable. There were footsteps, constantly moving from room to room. The visitors seemed to be carrying out a thorough search of the entire house. Michael could only hope that their hosts had done a good job of hiding, or explaining away, any possessions of theirs which hadn’t been thrown in the cellar.

There were some alarming moments when the footsteps returned to almost right above them, and there were sounds of the desk being shifted. But apparently the men were satisfied, and after more inaudible conversation they heard the front door close. Then silence for what seemed like an interminable time. Michael judged that it was fully half an hour, with the air becoming intolerably stuffy, before, to their immense relief, they heard the heavy desk being dragged aside and the carpet rolled up.

When the trapdoor was opened it was some time before they could recover from the blinding light. They thrust their spare clothes back through the hatch and then clambered stiffly out, to join Peter and Justin who were smiling broadly. It was a while before they were able to speak.

“I suppose this changes everything,” said Michael, despairingly.

“Yes it does,” agreed Peter. “But they haven’t found you—yet—so keep your spirits up! We had some luck on our side. Justin was able to make up his bed in my room, so that it appeared not to have been slept in, and he made a good pretence of having slept in your room. And luckily we hadn’t started preparing breakfast (I’m sure you’re hungry!). They wanted to see the animals and the stable, so Justin took them round there. Then they appeared satisfied, and they left. They’re probably pestering others in the village now. I don’t think you’ll be betrayed. They’re obviously Inspectorate people, and such folk aren’t well-liked in these parts. I think you’ll find that our neighbours, those who have seen you, will be on your side. They won’t mention our visitors.”

“Did these men mention Deviations? Or Blasphemies?”

“No. Not once. All the talk was of ‘common criminals’. I suppose they realised that talk of Deviations would carry far less weight, or alarm, in this part of Labrador, than it does in the West. After all, as you’ve seen, it’s hardly a problem for us. And I’m quite sure they never once suspected Justin and me—nor Tim and Big Rachel—of being thought-shapers.

“Oh, and I went round to Tim and Rachel’s, while Justin was showing our ‘visitors’ round the stables. It was dangerous—but perhaps the only option—for Tim to have contacted you by thought-shape. There’s always a risk that they’d have someone in their team who could detect thought-shapes. But luckily that doesn’t seem to have been the case. And Tim’s house was searched all over—just like ours—but nothing there seems to have raised any suspicions.

“But you’ll have to leave—almost at once. Your luck won’t hold out: they’re sure to be back. I’m coming with you, at least part of the way.” Both Michael and Rachel could barely conceal their joy at this news. “I know some trails which those men will hardly be able to find, let alone follow,” continued Peter. “But we’ll have to go on horseback: I was hoping to take the cart, but it can’t be used on the trails.”

“But how the hell did they find this place?” put in Michael. “We’re miles from anywhere. What on Earth drew them to this village?”

“Hard to say,” replied Peter. “I did ask them, why didn’t they follow the road to Rigo, seeing as that’s where most fugitives will surely head for? They said they had done, for quite a long way, but then they reckoned they’d lost the trail: you must have turned off somewhere before then. So they backed up quite a long way, debating amongst themselves as to whether you’d turned north or south. They thought north more likely, seeing as that way is more sparsely populated. I countered by suggesting that south would be quite a good option: amongst the larger and more frequent villages it’d be easier to ‘lose’ oneself. I hope I sounded convincing.

“But once they’d decided to strike north, they’d certainly have made enquiries at all the shops and inns they came across. You mentioned that you stopped a couple of nights at the inn in Curkajak. That was rather unwise of you—I suppose you thought you were in ‘safe’ territory by then—but it can’t be helped now. The innkeeper is sure to have remembered you—especially since you had the cheek to ask to copy his map! The shopkeepers might have remembered, too. Curkajak is one of the biggest villages in this part of Labrador. I don’t know whether you were betrayed, but not everyone there can be trusted. And I believe you even mentioned that you were going to head east or south-east! Once your pursuers reached Curkajak, having that information, it would have narrowed down their search quite a lot!

“So: we move as soon as we can get everything ready. It’s lucky your horses are in good shape: you can thank us for that!”


	20. The Road Again

It took the rest of the day for Michael and Rachel to pack everything they needed to take with them, and get ready to continue their long journey. Peter insisted that they should start the following morning: he felt confident that they wouldn’t be surprised during the night.

“Travelling by night has its advantages, of course, if you’re being followed: but in this part of Labrador, at this time of year, it’s too dangerous. Especially on horseback. Even though I know the country around here pretty well, we’d be sure to lose the trail. No: we’ll take our chances and set off tomorrow morning. If the men return, Justin will cover for me, after all he only has to tell them I’ve set off to meet my publisher. Which is perfectly true, as it happens. Let’s hope they don’t notice that four horses are missing from the stable...”

“ **Four** horses?”

“Yes. Rachel and you will, of course, ride your own, and I’ll be riding one of ours. And another to carry most of our baggage. That way we’ll be able to travel faster and easier. But we absolutely **must** have our horses back, some time. Our plan leaves Justin with only one horse of our own, in case he has to go off somewhere. Of course he may be able to borrow another horse from the villagers—many of them are in our stables after all. But there’s a risk.”

More than a small risk, Michael thought, as he and Rachel settled down for the night. Both of them found it hard to sleep: every time there was a noise outside, be it only a dog barking, or a horse stamping its feet in the stables, they started up in great anxiety. They could hear owls hooting in the nearby forest, something they had never noticed up till then—and that kept them awake too. Just before dawn they finally snatched an hour or two of sleep.

It was still early twilight when Peter woke them. “All ready?” he announced. They quickly dressed, ate a hurried breakfast, and wrapped themselves up in their furs: how grateful they were to have them! They bid farewell to Justin, who wished them a safe journey: Rachel flung herself at him and kissed him full on the mouth, passionately if somewhat over-exuberantly. The horses were already saddled outside: they were just loading up the pack-horse when Tim and Big Rachel appeared, leading another horse.

“I’m coming with you,” announced Big Rachel. Michael and Rachel could only gape, utterly astonished. “You’re better off with four than with three, and Tim can spare me for a few weeks. He hasn’t got much work on at the moment, and he’s getting pretty good at keeping house and doing the cooking. If the men return and ask questions, he’ll easily make up a story: say I’m visiting my sick mother in another village.”

Although Michael and Rachel—and Peter too, for that matter—protested that they could have managed quite all right, just the three of them, Big Rachel was insistent. In the end they needed little persuasion: they were after all utterly delighted to have the extra company. And Big Rachel was a good horsewoman, and an excellent cook, well skilled at cooking in the wild. They would be grateful for that.

Tim announced that he had seen the men departing the village, late the previous day, going south. There was a faint hope that they had heeded Peter’s misleading ‘advice’ and set about searching the land south of the Rigo highway. If so, it would take them several days even to reach the crossing point. At any rate, there was a good chance of not encountering them on the journey. But they would need to be cautious.

They bade farewell to Tim and set off. Peter led them south out of the village, back along the road they had come by. After a little less than an hour they reached the fork where the other road joined, from Liapik. They continued south for another half mile, then Peter turned off to the left, taking an almost invisible trail to the east. The ground was stony here, surrounding a small stream, and the horses’ hooves left no imprint.

Michael remembered, with some amusement, how careful he had been to cover their tracks, when they had left the road out of Kentak while being pursued. Clearly he and Peter thought alike!

The new trail was uneven and difficult to follow, but both Peter and Big Rachel knew the way. There were places where they had to dismount and lead the horses. And there were many streams they had to cross. Some of them in spate from melting snow—quite treacherous. Peter’s and Big Rachel’s horses, as well as their pack-horse, were more adept at these crossings than Michael’s or Rachel’s, born and bred in Waknuk district, where there were fewer watercourses and snow was less common.

They bivouacked just as dusk was falling, under the shelter of a tree growing against a large boulder. Big Rachel lit a fire and cooked two rabbits that she had shot with bow and arrow, proving herself a skilled hunter—which made Michael envious. At least they enjoyed a hearty meal—better than anything they’d been able to eat while out in the wild, before they came to Ragnarok.

They had also loaded the pack-horse with a tent and some blankets, so they would be able to sleep quite comfortably. But after supper they sat up by their fire, talking long about the recent events.

  
“Why do you suppose ‘Yellow-Hair’ was pursuing us so far?” muttered Michael, plaintively. This was how he and Rachel had dubbed the farm-hand who was chasing them. “What has he got against me, that he goes after us again and again? After all, we only met once—at Sally’s farm, where he simply ordered me to ‘clear off’. Why should he have thought I was a Deviant in the first place? I only asked if Sally was there. I could have been an old friend, knowing nothing of her thought-shape powers, or her arrest and torture.”

“He was probably working for your local Inspector,” suggested Peter. “Didn’t you say, you saw them side by side at Rachel’s father’s funeral?”

“Yes—but no! The Waknuk district inspector was firm but fair. He had to enforce the Purity laws, and he was quite strict where local Deviations were concerned—but he wouldn’t have sent out a posse all the way across Labrador, chasing a Deviant who had clearly left the district and was unlikely to return. That wasn’t his style. He wasn’t obsessive in that way. I knew him: he wouldn’t act like this.”

“OK, then. There were others in your district. What about Joseph Strorm, David’s father? There we had, by all accounts, a man obsessed with ridding the whole of Labrador of Deviants. Could he have recruited him?”

“Strorm is dead, you remember. Killed by his own brother, in the Fringes battle. He’d set out in pursuit of his own children almost immediately after they fled. He wouldn’t have had time to recruit Yellow-Hair—if he only did so after Sally and Katherine were arrested. Unless he got at him long before then...”

“Someone else then. I seem to remember, you said that at the episode with Petra’s dead pony, a stranger stumbled on the scene? Someone rather suspicious?”

“That’s right. A man named Jerome Skinner. I never met him: luckily both of us had left the scene before he arrived. But both Sally and Katherine knew him apparently: they said he was something of a busybody in their district. And it could well have been he who brought the Inspector down onto them, got them arrested...”

“Could it be him?”

“No. David described him as a much older man. A pity I never saw him, or got a full description—but the only people who did see him are either dead or out of reach. I wonder if he had yellow hair... or perhaps his wife...”

“You mean, the young man you call ‘Yellow-Hair’ could be his son?”

“It’s possible. And it would explain a lot. There are, I’m afraid, plenty more ‘Strorms’ in and around the Waknuk district, to replace the Strorm who’s gone.”

“Both of you are well out of that benighted place, then. Now, let’s get some sleep, shall we?”

Both Peter and Big Rachel judged that, where they were at present, it was safe enough not to set a watch—and both Michael and Rachel needed a full night’s sleep—so they all piled into the tent. It was cosy, and with the four of them crammed close together inside, it was comfortably warm. Both Michael and Rachel, still feeling the effects of their lack of sleep the night before, fell asleep almost immediately and slept soundly right through the night. At dawn, Michael woke, and crawled out of the tent. Big Rachel was already outside: she’d found a nearby stream and, stripped to the waist, she was busy washing herself. Catching sight of Michael, she turned and winked at him, without apparently any embarrassment. At that moment Rachel also appeared out of the tent. Seeing Big Rachel, she shrugged, pulled off her top, and joined her at the stream. Michael followed suit, a bit shyly. There was no sign of Peter yet.

“I’ll get us something for breakfast,” said Big Rachel at last, drying herself off, putting on her blouse and jacket, and grabbing her bow and arrows. She disappeared off round the far side of the boulder. A few minutes later Peter emerged, looking somewhat bleary-eyed. He went to the stream but merely splashed some water over his face and into his beard. He then re-lit the fire and started heating up some water.

Big Rachel wasn’t long returning. Michael had half expected more rabbit for breakfast, but she was swinging a pair of large pigeons by their legs.

“Best I could manage this time—but it’ll be enough for all of us. And we’ve got some bread and cocoa—enough to last a few days.”

The pigeons took a while to cook over the fire, so the sun was already well up in the sky by the time they’d rolled up the tent, packed, and set off.


	21. In Search of Peter’s Publisher

As the horses slowly picked their way along the rough, and sometimes indistinct, trail, Michael was still musing over several thoughts in his mind that he was still not satisfied about. At a wider stretch of the trail, he brought his horse up alongside Peter’s.

“About that burned-out farm, Peter: you know, the one Rachel and I are accused of torching—I can only suppose that Yellow-Hair was referring to Katherine’s farm, back home, which I came across when I went out looking for her, totally gutted. So my guess is, he and his mates probably burnt the place down themselves, and then tried to frame us. The _bastard_!”

“Very likely,” replied Peter. “My guess is, Katherine’s parents tried to shield her, and they ended up paying the ‘ultimate penalty’. Whether they were really burnt alive, or simply shot—who can tell? I think the latter more likely.”

“But Sally’s farm escaped torching, and was still working. Why the difference? I’m now remembering something Sally told us, just before her arrest. She said Jerome Skinner was a friend of her father’s. Was it possible that Sally’s _father_ had a hand in putting the screws on Sally—and Katherine?”

“David’s father, Joseph, by your account, was murderous and tyrannical. He was prepared to hunt down and exterminate _his own children_. So why not Sally’s father, too?”

“So there _is_ someone still alive to carry on Strorm’s work, it seems. That whole area, around Waknuk and Kentak, seems extremely dangerous, indeed,” continued Michael. “We’re lucky to be well away, even if we are being followed. I only hope Mark and Stephanie got away safely too.

“And speaking of Stephanie—yes it was she—Sophie—who shot the man they found on the southern road. But it was self-defence: he’d have killed us both if we hadn’t acted. He killed our horse—well, as good as. It was so badly injured that I had to shoot it.”

“Your mention of Mark and Stephanie—that’s a good point,” said Peter. “We’re heading south-east now: I’m planning to intersect the Kentak to Rigo road some time. My publisher lives in a small village just south of that road. We could try contacting Mark once again when we reach the road. But my guess is, if they hit no obstacles, they should have reached Rigo weeks ago. They may well be wondering what’s happened to you and Rachel. They may even be on board ship. You could try sending a thought-shape when you get closer to Rigo—but beware! Rigo is safer than Waknuk—but still not entirely safe for thought-shapers.”

They continued along the trail in silence, most of the time in single file. At around midday, they crossed the road which Michael and Rachel had followed from Curkajak—but a good deal further east than where they had left that road. Peter urged caution, insisting that Michael and Rachel hold back, hiding as best they could in a clump of trees, while he and Big Rachel went ahead to reconnoitre.

They soon returned with signs of relief. “Not a soul to be seen anywhere,” announced Peter. “But it’s not safe for us to continue even on this road for too long. About three miles further, there’s another narrow trail leading south. We’ll follow that as far as the Rigo road, where we’ll need to take care again.”

They urged their horses into a gentle trot, for which the horses seemed to be relieved. As Peter had promised, three miles on they came upon the trail to the right. As with the other places where they had left the road, the ground was stony, and there was a stream crossing the road at this point. They had picked their way along the trail for about twenty minutes when Peter pronounced a stop for lunch. There was a small wood behind them, between them and the road, and Peter was fairly certain that they could not be seen from it. But he firmly refused to let them light a fire. “The rising smoke might be seen from the road: we’re not far enough away, and we can’t take any chances.” Even Big Rachel protested at this, saying that she was quite capable of starting a fire making very little smoke, but Peter was adamant. So they had to resort to bread, cheese, and ham, plus some of the few apples they’d brought along with them.

So they continued. The weather had turned colder again, and there were brief flurries of snow, although none of it was settling. In the evening they halted once again in the shelter of a small cliff. Once again Big Rachel demanded that they light a fire: “If we don’t, we’ll freeze to death, and how will that help us?” At length Peter relented: they were further from the road, the smoke wouldn’t be seen once it got dark, and the cliff was between them and the road.

So, in the last of the daylight, Big Rachel managed to down another brace of pigeons with her bow, and they enjoyed a heartier supper than they’d expected. That night they set a watch, and Michael, who once again found it hard to sleep, took Rachel’s watch as well as his own.

They continued in this manner for another three days. At length, in the afternoon of the fourth day, they saw the wider Rigo road ahead. Once again Peter asked Michael and Rachel—and Big Rachel as well, this time—to hold back, while he surveyed the road alone.

At this point they put out a cautious thought-shape, hoping to raise Mark, but without success.

This time the road was not deserted. There were several travellers making their way in both directions, some with horse and cart, some on horseback, some on foot. It was fully half an hour before Peter came back and pronounced the road safe to cross.

“This time we’ll be going straight across: the trail continues on the other side, thankfully. But it soon turn east and runs parallel to the main road. We’ll have to be specially careful. And, although it leads almost straight to the village we’re aiming for, it’ll be a lot slower than if we continued on the road—but that can’t be helped.”

It was another two days of cheerless picking their way along the difficult trail—for once again Peter forbade the lighting of any fires. At last, as daylight was fading on the third day, they caught site of a cluster of houses and a church ahead, which Peter explained was ‘Palukaat’—the name of the village where his publisher, Samuel, like Peter a widower, lived. Eagerly, they hastened towards the village.

But now they had a setback. Peter knocked on the door of Samuel’s house, and the housekeeper appeared. She explained, apologetically, that Samuel wasn’t there: a few days ago he’d set out to see the printers in Rigo, and he wasn’t expected back for another two weeks.

Peter was now at a loss. He said they couldn’t risk staying—at least, not all four of them—at Palukaat for two whole weeks. He’d been hoping that Samuel, as was his custom, would invite him to stay at the house for a day or two while they went over the manuscript—but that was a favour he couldn’t ask of the housekeeper. There was no inn at Palukaat: even if there had been one, he could not have afforded to stay the whole time. In any case, it had been his intention to send the others on to Rigo without him. He wondered whether to stick to this plan.

At length he made his mind up. “I’ll come along to Rigo, after all. I really do need to catch Samuel, and we can get there in about three days— _on the road_. Of course it’ll be risky, but if Samuel returns early, that’ll be the way he’ll be coming, and I can’t afford to miss him. We just have to hope against hope that your pursuers followed my suggestion and struck south. If so, good luck to them!” he added, with a smile.

So they retreated along the trail they had come by, until they were out of sight of the village, and made camp. Once again without a fire, and once again they set a watch. The next morning they returned to the village and took the road leading north out of it a short distance, until it joined the main road.

Having no other option, they turned east and urged their horses to a fast trot—which once again the horses seemed to enjoy. Michael and Rachel both guessed that they were in need of the exercise. They passed several travellers on the road, but merely exchanged “Good day”s with them, without a hint of any suspicion. The four of them gave the appearance of being just ordinary travellers, after all. They also passed, from time to time, a Mail-coach: the light Mail, drawn by four horses, or the heavy Mail, drawn by six. The Mail driver of course did not deign to greet them: he merely blew his horn as he approached, signalling to them to leave the road clear for his passage—but he did doff his hat briefly as he passed them.

Of Yellow-Hair and his accomplices, they saw no sign.

They could not, of course, camp on the road itself, so in the evenings they looked for trails leading to either side, along which they could retreat until out of sight of the road, and make camp. For most of the nights they were lucky—and Peter even relented so far as to allow them to light fires. Other travellers on the road would do likewise, he admitted, and a column of smoke, or even the light of a fire itself, wouldn’t be remarked upon. Sometimes they were unable to find a trail and had to force their way across country, often picking their way through dense forest. But they did not have to stray far off the road on these occasions. Each night, as previously, they set a watch, but were undisturbed.

The villages became much more frequent, now, and they had to pause at the shop more than once. They were running low in provisions, and Big Rachel couldn’t exercise her hunting skills very often now. Peter insisted on going into the shops alone: he was known to many of the shopkeepers and wouldn’t have aroused suspicion.

At length they found themselves at the top of a high hill, looking down towards what seemed like an endless lake about two miles off, fading into the distance both to the north-east and the south-west.

“Rigo’s just down there, on the north shore of that lake: in fact it’s a sea inlet, not a lake—although it’s called a lake: Lake Melf,” announced Peter. “It’ll be your first taste of salt water! But you’ll see.

The first thing to do, even before descending to the city, was to try and contact Mark and Stephanie once more. Rachel took upon herself that task, being the one most attached to Mark. But, despite her sending out her strongest possible thought-shape, they detected nothing.

Rachel was close to tears once again, but Michael took her in his arms and tried to comfort her. “Perhaps they haven’t reached Rigo? Perhaps they stayed in Kentak after all? Perhaps it’s just that they’re asleep? We don’t have to fear the worst. Not yet.”

Big Rachel looked a bit uneasy. She waited until Rachel had more or less composed herself once more. Then she announced “This is where I turn back. I don’t really need to come down with you into Rigo itself, especially seeing as you’ve got Peter with you—and I didn’t want to leave Tim on his own for so long. I’m sure you’ll manage fine from now on. I’ll do my best to contact Mark as I travel west. If I do so, I’ll get word sent to you.

“But beware, Rachel and Michael (I don’t need to warn Peter)! Rigo is safer than where you came from, but there are still spies and informers around the city. If you must send thought-shapes, do so with extreme caution. And best of luck!”

The others could only thank Big Rachel profusely for coming so far and for her help. They wished her a safe journey back, a bit fearful for her safety: but she made light of it. “I can go back along the road, no need to cut across country. I should get back much more quickly than we came here. And I know the country pretty well. So good-bye all!”

She re-mounted her horse and rode back along the road until she was out of sight.


	22. Rigo

Rigo! The city teemed with people, more than either Michael or Rachel had ever seen in one place before. The streets were crowded: almost blocked with people walking, horses, carts—and the shops! The restaurants! The strange, exotic foods and other produce on sale. Peter guided them round: introduced them to something called ‘chocolate’—they recognised that it had a family resemblance to the cocoa they were accustomed to drinking, but this was a novelty. A delectable sweetmeat with a taste all of its own. Also a fragrant drink called ‘tea’. This was a strange taste to them at first, entirely new to both Michael and Rachel. But they soon became addicted to it and its reviving qualities. Peter told them that there could also be found in Rigo another exotic drink called ‘coffee’—but he’d break them into that gently. It took some getting used to, he said.

Rachel asked, what were these drinks made from? Peter explained that the raw materials grew in much warmer places, further south, and were brought to Rigo by sea. Perhaps, in their travels, they might visit such places...

But the strangest thing of all, to Michael and Rachel, was the diversity in the people they saw thronging the streets. Several had eyes unlike any they had seen in Labrador before: narrower than the eyes of all the people he had known—and they also had high cheek-bones. Michael asked, were these mutants? Peter replied, no, they were descendants of the Inuit, an authentic pre-Tribulation race of people—as he had already explained to them before—who had lived in the far north of Labrador and beyond.

Michael muttered, half jokingly, “They’d certainly be classed as Mutants if they strayed as far as Waknuk. Though perhaps, with Strorm gone, the treatment wouldn’t be so harsh...”

“Don’t _ever_ call them Mutants, even in jest, if you come to meet any Inuit,” retorted Peter, somewhat angrily. “The same goes for some others you’re about to meet. None of the people living in Rigo are Mutants in the true sense of the word. And don’t you forget it! You’ll be learning a lot about human diversity while you’re here—and on your travels.

“But come now. I have to find Samuel, and I’d like to introduce you to him. He’ll be interested.”

Peter led them through the bewildering maze of streets. Michael remembered how familiar he had been with the streets of Kentak, but this place was ten times bigger. Without Peter they’d have been lost in a few minutes. Peter explained that Samuel was probably staying at one of the many inns in Rigo: he wasn’t quite sure which. He might be in his room, he might be having a meal or drinking at a bar, or he might be at the printer’s. They couldn’t be sure.

They tried several inns until they struck lucky. At the fourth inn they enquired at, the landlord told them: yes, Samuel was staying there, and he believed he was in his room at the time. So they quickly arranged stabling for their horses, went up to Samuel’s room, and knocked on the door; a voice called “Who is it?” and Peter announced himself, then they heard a cheerful “Come in!”

Samuel came forward to greet them, and he and Peter enthusiastically embraced one another: they were clearly old friends of long standing. But Michael and Rachel could only gape. Peter had told them about the many different types of people to be found in Rigo, but this man, Samuel, was in a class of his own. Skin dark, in fact almost completely black, short greying hair, tightly curled, unlike any hair they had seen before. The shape of the nose and lips also seemed alien to them....

After Peter had introduced his companions, and he and Samuel had exchanged a few words in conversation, Peter explaining their mission, Samuel caught Michael and Rachel staring. He chuckled. “New to you, am I? Don’t worry, I’m cool. And I don’t live in Rigo, I live out west in a village called Palukaat.” Michael and Rachel nodded. “Folks out there find me strange, too. Some of them call me a ‘Mutant’—which I don’t particularly care for—but I’m used to it. I’ve never been further west than Peter’s house in Ragnarok. I’m told folks get more and more suspicious and intolerant the further west you go.”

Michael nodded again. He was remembering something David had told him, years ago. Something he had learned from his much-travelled Uncle Axel:

‘...there are even said to be some islands where both the men and the women would be passed as true images if it weren’t that some strange Deviation has turned them all completely black...’

Michael tried a long shot. “Mr... er.... Mr...”

“Oh, call me Samuel, please. Everyone else does.”

Michael continued “Er... Samuel, do you come from an island down South?”

“No, I don’t: I was born here in Rigo—but others have asked me that same question. And my parents sailed north to Rigo before I was born, from an island called Barbados, many thousands of miles to the south. I have a brother and two sisters living here in Rigo. Yes, they look like me. And there are several others. My late wife was one. She too was born in Rigo, of parents who sailed from the South.”

“ **Thousands** of miles? **”** put in Rachel.

“Yes, thousands. Perhaps you folk don’t realise how big the world is. Of course, you guys from out west, with your rather blinkered view of the world—” Michael scowled, but said nothing “—probably think the world is flat, or something.”

“I have had **some** schooling,” retorted Michael, not a little annoyed. “But they never taught me about your folk. So your ancestors, from before Tribulation, really looked like you?”

“Yes. And a hard time my folk had, back then. You wouldn’t have been taught that, either. You’d have been told how wonderful and civilised and well-behaved the Old People were, the _white_ Old People that is (we call folks with your skin colour ‘white’). Well, they weren’t! Some of them treated us black folk abominably. Kept us as slaves for hundreds of years, according to some accounts. And even after the laws changed, and white folks weren’t allowed to keep slaves any more, we were still cruelly mistreated in some parts of the world. That’s what some of your Old People were like. And all this happened long before Tribulation...”

Michael and Rachel both kept silent. Both of them were shocked: they had much to think about.

“But anyway,” continued Samuel, “I have work to do: much business to discuss with Peter about his new book: we have to go over all the text and see if it’s fit for publishing. Never been to Rigo before, have you? I tell you what, why don’t you call on my son Benjamin and his wife? Peter will show you where he lives, won’t you Peter? It’s not far from here. When I come to Rigo I stop here at the inn, instead of at their house, because the grandchildren would pester me all the time and interfere with my work.”

Peter at once agreed to show them to Benjamin’s house. He left his completed manuscript with Samuel: then the three of them went down to the street again and threaded their way on foot through yet more intricate corners and turnings. As soon as they were a little way away from the inn, Michael asked the question which had been nagging at him ever since they’d met Samuel.

“Is Samuel—can he do—thought-shapes? Does he know about them—about you?

“No,” replied Peter. “He isn’t a telepath, nor is his son. And no—I haven’t told them. Samuel’s a very good friend of mine, and I’m sure he’s trustworthy—as, certainly, is Benjamin—but it doesn’t do to burden them with secrets which are dangerous to possess, does it? So no talk of thought-shapes, and certainly **no using thought-shapes** , while we’re at Benjamin’s! If the subject of your wishing to flee Labrador altogether crops up, and we need a cover-story, we’ll think of something. We could explain just how bigoted folk are, back at Waknuk and Kentak. You could have been guilty of aiding and abetting, or sheltering, Mutants, without being Mutants yourselves....”

“Yes, that makes sense. And something I’ve noticed about Norms ( **no!** —why do I call non-thought-shapers ‘Norms’? We’re just as much Norms as they are: they’re simply in a different world to ours). Anyway, some non-thought-shapers appear to be able to sense when we’re using thought-shapes. Rachel’s Mum had known for a long time—but then she’d raised two thought-shapers in the form of her own children: she was bound to discover. And there was Sophie—Stephanie. She wasn’t a thought-shaper at first: still a very weak one—but she sensed pretty quickly when David was talking in thought-shapes. She sensed me too—when I got back in touch with Rachel. And David told us about Sophie’s mum. Maybe it’s the ones who have this power—telepathy—in them already, very weakly...

“And...I’m remembering something else. Rosalind was telling us, hastily, in thought-shapes, just as she, David and Petra were fleeing from Waknuk. About **her** mother, who’d **helped** her to pack. Who **knew** she had to fly for her life. _‘She’s sort of half-known, guessed something, for some time now. I don’t know how much she’s guessed—she never spoke about it at all. I think she felt that as long as she didn’t have to admit it in words, it might be all right.’_ Do you think it runs in families, weak in some generations, strong in others—or is it just random?”

“Who knows? If it’s random, then **anyone** in Rigo might be able to detect thought-shapes. So you’re heeding my warning, yes?” put in Peter. “It’s dangerous to use thought-shapes in the presence of strangers. Why do you think I’ve avoided using them, unless absolutely necessary, all these years?”

The evening was drawing in when, after about twenty minutes, they stopped at the door of a house in a rather dingy street. Peter knocked and a young man and woman came to open the door.

“Hi, Benjamin, hi, Laura, remember me?” announced Peter. They both replied, “Of course!” “I’ve just been to see your Dad, Benjamin. New book I’m hoping he’ll publish. And I’ve brought some friends here to meet you, Rachel and Michael, here.”

“Good to meet you,” said Benjamin, with a smile. They noticed that, while his skin was as dark as his father’s, Laura’s skin was the same colour as theirs. So marriages between these very different-looking people did happen—in Rigo at least!


	23. At Benjamin and Laura’s

The three of them had barely crossed the threshold when three little girls—the eldest of them could not have been older than six, came romping towards them, delighted at the entrance of visitors. They crowded around Rachel, tugging at her clothes, and she swept up the youngest of them into her arms. Rachel was delighted: these were the first children she and Michael had met, since they left Waknuk.

“Well, the children certainly seem to have taken to you,” laughed Laura. “It’s their bed-time soon, but I’ll let them stay up a bit longer, as a treat. And why don’t you all have supper with us? It’s on the stove now: I can easily put some more in the pot.”

But Peter excused himself, saying he wanted to get back to Samuel, and would dine with him at the inn. He promised to book a room for them at the inn. It would be safe enough, under a false name, and this inn was quite easy-going: no questions would be asked and no demands for Normalcy cards: “You’re Mr and Mrs Smith. Will that do? It used to be a very common name before Tribulation, though it’s rare in present-day Labrador. Will you try to remember that?”

Michael and Rachel nodded. And Benjamin promised to show them the way back to the inn.

“And another thing. How are you for money?” asked Peter. Michael had to admit that they had very little left. Even if it had not been for Beth’s raid on his purse, their cash had barely been enough to hold out during the last leg of their journey. Without Big Rachel’s hunting prowess, they might well have starved before reaching Rigo.

“I’ll lend you some,” promised Peter. “I hope to be getting a decent advance on my book, from Samuel, once we’ve agreed terms. No—don’t argue! You’ve already been a great help to us while you were staying at our place, and I’m really delighted to help you out, there. You can repay me whenever you’re able to—even if it’s not until you’re across the ocean—”

Benjamin’s eyes widened on hearing this. “You’re planning to cross the sea?” he asked.

“Yes they are,” put in Peter. “But they’ll explain later. Thanks a lot: I’ve got to go.” And with a wave, he was off.

After Laura had shoo’d the children off to their own bedroom to play—not without some difficulty!—Benjamin and Laura led the newcomers into the kitchen, where Laura busied herself at the stove, while Benjamin waved to the others to sit around the large table with him. He was about to ask them about their prospective ocean-crossing, but Michael got in first.

“So, what do you do, Benjamin?” Clearly their hosts were not farmers, not in the middle of a big city like this one—and Michael could see no sign of a workshop like the one he’d worked in at Kentak.

“I’m a doctor. I work at the main City hospital. Laura’s currently staying at home looking after the kids, but before they were born, she was working at the same hospital, as a nurse. That’s how we met.”

“A **doctor**?” put in Rachel. Her concept of doctors was fairly limited: she had this picture of the elderly white-haired man who’d been visiting the house whilst her father was poorly, and had also come to certify Anne’s death. And she also just about remembered, he’d come round when Anne and she were children, ill in bed, taken with the scarlet fever. A very different person from this young man. As to ‘hospital’, the word was almost unknown to her: certainly she’d never seen such a place.

But Michael had. “I’ve been to a hospital: there’s one in Kentak—where we’ve come from. And I was taken there, once, from school, when I had a fever. Looks like three or four houses joined together, with their dividing walls knocked through. And all the rooms full of beds. And a team of old ladies to look after us. I was lucky: most people who get taken there, end up dying there.”

“You’ll find our City hospital a very different place,” said Benjamin. “Our aim is to **cure** people, not to leave them to die. Of course it doesn’t always work that way. But it’s a large purpose-built building, certainly larger than your Kentak place. I’ll show you around when I’ve got time. And we do lots of things you’ll hardly have heard about. We have surgeons and operating theatres...”

“ **Theatres?** ” said Rachel. She was getting more and more bewildered at all this high-level talk: to her the word ‘theatre’ had a very different meaning.

“Yes,” replied Benjamin, guessing at her puzzlement. “In this sense ‘theatre’ means a room where we perform operations: cut into people to fix something that’s wrong inside them...”

“Sounds frightful,” commented Rachel.

“But sometimes it’s the best thing to do, to cure them,” continued Benjamin. “There’s lots more I could explain, but now: tell me about yourselves. I’m still curious to know why you’re so bent on taking ship—it’s a dangerous venture at any time, especially now in the winter—”

“Let’s leave that until after supper: it’s just ready,” interrupted Laura from the stove. She called down the children and they all sat around the table, while plates piled high with fish, potatoes and vegetables were handed round. After supper, the children insisted on showing Michael and Rachel their toys and inviting them to play with them—to which Rachel readily agreed; Michael a bit more reluctantly, but eventually he caved in, a bit embarrassed, kneeling on the floor and helping the eldest daughter to arrange miniature tables and chairs in her dolls’ house. Eventually, Laura pronounced bed-time and ushered the children, somewhat tearful, out of the kitchen.

“So, once again, what are your plans?” repeated Benjamin.

Michael started to explain. He decided that it was best to be honest, to some extent, with this man. But nevertheless he couldn’t come out with the truth. “We’re on the run—but perhaps you’ve already guessed that. You know something of the Kentak district, and the surrounding area, don’t you?” (he made no mention of Waknuk). “So you know that places like that, out west and close to the Fringes, most of the folks there are in farming families—well, they are very authoritarian, narrow-minded, and prejudiced, compared with Rigo. And they’re absolutely terrified of Mutations—which in any case are a lot more common out there, than they are here. So much so, that anyone who conceals a Mutant—especially a human one—from the authorities faces a lengthy prison sentence. Well, that was our downfall. There was a little girl born thereabouts, who had six toes on each foot. Not much to mark her out, you would think! But, in the insular, bigoted climate of those parts, that was enough to have her classed as a Blasphemy. We shielded her for a while—” (Michael found it easy to transfer David’s childish ‘crime’, to himself). “—but we were found out. We had to run for it.”

As he was recounting this only partly-true story, Michael suddenly remembered how Sophie had told him about the _‘awfully nice doctor, a woman’_ , to whom she’d been taken as a child to have—no matter what. Were all the doctors in Rigo as ‘nice’ as that one, and Benjamin here, even when they were forced to do something unpleasant? But Benjamin interrupted his thoughts.

“Wouldn’t it have been safe enough for you to settle in these parts?” he asked. “Maybe not in Rigo itself—you’re clearly not city folk—but in one of the nearby villages? You could get taken on as farm-hands—until you’ve saved up enough to buy a farm for yourselves.”

“Yes, we thought of that,” said Michael, carefully. “But we were being pursued almost as far as Rigo itself. Why they’re so determined to come after us, I don’t know: perhaps they think we’re sheltering other Blasphemies. And our pursuers are farming folk, themselves: the first thing they’d think of, was to search out the farms in the area. And besides, we’ve both got an urge to see the world. That means going to sea. Maybe even that far-off land where your grandparents originally came from.” Benjamin smiled at this. “Or elsewhere: the world’s a big place. Even bigger than we’d thought, from what your father told us.”

“Hmmm... a bit risky, I’d say. You’re both very young, and a bit headstrong: I’d advise against it. But if you’re absolutely determined, you’ll need to get taken on board ship. I can show you where, in Rigo, to go and make enquiries. But not tonight! I’m on duty early tomorrow morning: I’ve just got time to show you round parts of the city, and then back to your inn. I’ll be back home late tomorrow afternoon: call round then.”

Bidding good-night to Laura, Michael and Rachel went out with Benjamin into the street, now lit by numerous oil-lamps set on pillars. He was a good guide: the first place he led them to was the hospital: an imposing building, far bigger than anything even Michael had come across in Kentak. Benjamin took them briefly on a tour inside, but they could take in little of the place: the strange smells and the long network of corridors, all neatly whitewashed, were all too bewildering. Then they went on past the ‘university’—a sort of big ‘school’ for older pupils, Benjamin explained, far vaster than the building in which Michael had received his schooling. Then there was the cathedral, magnificent even at night, beside which Waknuk’s modest little church—and even the church in which Michael and Rachel had got ‘married’—would have seemed mere huts. Eventually the found themselves back outside the inn.

“Well, I’ve got to be getting back. Good-night to you both.” And with that Benjamin took leave of them.

Michael and Rachel—or ‘Mr and Mrs Smith’ as they now were—had no trouble checking into the inn: the landlord recognised them from their visit earlier in the day, and, without asking any questions, he showed them to their room, explaining that their friend Peter had already retired for the night. Leaving them with a lit candle, he bade them good night. The room seemed fairly comfortable and airy, not over-furnished, but with a large bed, a wash-stand, and a table with a couple of chairs. Being very tired, they fell asleep almost as soon as they climbed into the bed.


	24. Lodgings and Job-seeking

In the morning both Peter and Samuel joined them at breakfast. Smiling, Peter handed them a substantial wad of dollars.

“First instalment of my loan to you,” he said. Samuel was chuckling. “Should see you all right in Rigo for a couple of weeks, as well as pay your bills here at the inn. And no hurry to pay it back! Wait until you’ve earned a little. Did you say you used to work as a carpenter, Michael? You may be able to find some work here in Rigo, while you’re waiting for a ship. I’m sorry, I can’t show you around today, I’m still busy with Samuel. You’ll have to find your way around Rigo on your own. Don’t get lost!”

After breakfast, Michael and Rachel decided to explore the city on their own. Heedful of Peter’s warning, they took great care to memorise landmarks that would guide them to the inn—and to Benjamin’s house. Both the hospital and the cathedral were easy landmarks, so they concentrated on roads leading to those places. For about two hours they explored many streets, mostly consisting of shops and restaurants. Moving a bit further from the city centre, they came upon rows of rather dowdy houses, all much smaller than the farmhouses they’d been accustomed to at home, and joined up to one another. They were wondering whether any of these houses would be available to rent, when they noticed a card in one of the windows: ROOM TO LET.

“Might be worth asking,” said Michael as he knocked on the door. A plump, middle-aged woman with thin grey hair and a rather careworn face answered it. Upon their explaining their needs, she showed them to a rather down-at-heel bedroom, a lot smaller than their room at the inn. But it seemed reasonably clean, and upon Rachel enquiring about the rent, the woman named a figure that would work out considerably cheaper than their stay at the inn. They asked to go away and think about it for a bit.

Once they were out in the street again, Michael said “What about it, Rachel?” Rachel replied, “Ugh! Not a very nice area, is it? And that room—the whole house in fact—looks decidedly shabby. And do you trust that woman?”

“We don’t **have** to trust her. We don’t have to tell her anything. And if she starts getting inquisitive, well we’ve already told a few lies, these last two days! Point is, it’d be hard for even Yellow-Hair to find us here, once she’s taken down that card—whereas in the inn we’d be easy enough to pin down.”

At length Rachel saw the sense in that. They went back into the house and agreed terms with their new landlady, setting the following day for taking up occupancy. Michael was able to pay a deposit on the rent out of his newly-acquired wad of cash. There was, however, one more question he wanted to ask.

“Mrs—er, Mrs—”

“Norman. Mrs Norman, the name’s Mrs Norman. Now what was it about?”

“Do you know in what part of the city there are likely to be trade workshops? Carpenters’ yards, metal workshops, builders’ yards, that sort of thing?”

“Strangers here, eh? And looking for work? You might try going north along this street. Though I won’t promise you’ll come up with anything.”

Thanking her, they went back out into the street, and followed her directions, turning north. Sure enough, after about twenty minutes walking they came to a district full of the kind of workshops Michael was looking for.

But luck was not with them. Michael enquired at many carpenters’ yards, but not one of them had any vacancies. After two hours of trying, they were feeling very tired and frustrated. Michael began to wonder if his western accent was betraying him: the speech of Waknuk and Kentak was markedly different from that of Rigo. It could be that these places were suspicious of ‘foreigners’, especially those who came from ‘out west’. It had been so much easier to get that carpenter’s job in Kentak! Michael almost wished he was back there.

“Let’s make our way back to the City centre and get ourselves some lunch. We’re not doing any good here,” said Rachel, soothingly.

So back they went. Soon they were seated at a small but clean café, sharing a big meat and potato pie. Just as their plates were being taken away, Michael suddenly started and slapped himself on the forehead.

“Fool! Oh I’ve been so stupid! Of course! What is it we’re **really** looking for in Rigo? A ship to sail in, of course! And where there are ships, there’s got to be at least one shipyard, surely. And what trades do shipyards welcome, amongst others? Why, carpenters! That’s where I should be looking.”

“But not now,” insisted Rachel. “Now let’s go back to the inn and rest for a while. We’re both exhausted. And later in the afternoon we’ll be calling on Benjamin again—remember? The shipyard can wait until tomorrow. Perhaps Benjamin can point us towards one. Better than asking Mrs Norman: I don’t fancy telling her too much about our plans.”

So back to the inn they went, finding their way through Rigo’s streets without too much trouble. And later in the afternoon they managed to navigate themselves, with only one or two wrong turnings, back to Benjamin’s house. Their timing was perfect: just as they were about to knock on the door they spied Benjamin walking towards them from the end of the street. He was wearing a suit of dark cloth with a white gown over it: this appeared to be the ‘uniform’ for doctors in those parts.

“Hi there, again! Do come in. Just give me time to change and have a cup of tea, then we’ll be out again, exploring more of Rigo.”

Laura was in the kitchen with the children: they were all delighted to see their new friends once more. Laura placed a tin of biscuits on the table, and busied herself with making a pot of tea. Rachel watched her with some curiosity, never having seen tea made before.

“Oh, it’s quite simple, really,” explained Laura. “I use a few spoonfuls of these dried leaves—yes, I know they don’t look like much! They don’t grow in Labrador: they have to be shipped from much further south, where the climate is much warmer. You put the dry tea in the pot and then pour boiling water over them, then wait a minute or two, and it’s ready to drink—hot. With a few drops of milk—and sugar if you prefer.”

“Don’t you have to boil the water again, with the leaves in it?” asked Rachel, remembering how she used to make cocoa, back at the farm.

“Oh no! You must never do that: it quite spoils the tea. Just make an ‘infusion’ with the water off the boil.”

“And the milk?” continued Rachel, noticing the jug on the table. “I didn’t see your cow anywhere: where do you keep her?”

“Oh, we don’t need to have our own cow,” laughed Laura. “A man comes around early every morning, with a horse and cart, and delivers milk, pours it straight into our milk-jug. He gets it sent to him from a farm a little way outside Rigo. Didn’t you have the same arrangement in Kentak?”

“We probably did, but I didn’t stay in Kentak long enough to find out. Michael will know.” Michael nodded. “Everything’s so different, here in Rigo, from what it was back home! At least I recognise sugar. We had that back where I came from, on the farm beyond Kentak—” (she remembered Michael’s care not to mention Waknuk) “—comes from the sugar maple trees that grew all around. And a good thing too—or else I’d never have been able to make jam.”

“Yes, this is sugar too,” said Laura, pointing to the bowl on the table. “But it doesn’t come from sugar maple trees: there aren’t enough of them growing around Rigo. It comes from a plant called sugar-cane, which grows way down south—like the tea and coffee (have you tried coffee?)—where the weather’s much hotter. But it tastes the same as the sugar you’re used to. And it’s cheaper.”

Just then Benjamin re-joined them, and Rachel and Michael, both satisfied with Laura’s account, helped themselves to biscuits and downed their cups of tea, while the children had cups of cocoa. Then Benjamin stood up and reached for a rough fur coat hanging on a peg.

“It’s going to be chilly later on—I see you’ve both got furs—good! Let’s be going then.” He kissed Laura and the children, and out they went.

“Are we going to the harbour? Where the ships are?” asked Michael. Benjamin nodded, and they headed off to the south.


	25. The Shipyard

The harbour was set in a natural bay on the north shore of Lake Melf, which seemed to be about three miles wide at this point, although it seemed to narrow to less than a mile wide, over to the east. Michael tried to make out the far shore, but it was shrouded in mist and little could be discerned. Benjamin explained that the route to the ocean was to the north-east, via the narrow strait. He could tell them little about the shipping on the waterfront: seafaring was not his line of expertise and he had never sailed on the ocean, himself. They could see many ships of all different sizes and types, moored along the waterfront—but little activity except on the smaller ships and boats. Michael and Rachel guessed that these were for plying the coastal trade, perhaps as far as the island of Newf to the south, while the big ocean-going ships stood idle for the present, awaiting calmer weather at the onset of Spring.

Michael was on a mission, however, and they could not linger here long, especially since the afternoon was well advanced. He insisted on being shown where the shipyard was: the place where the ships were actually built, or repaired. So Benjamin led them along the front, past numerous bars and saloons—which reminded Michael of something else. He’d promised himself that, upon reaching Rigo, he’d make enquiries after David’s ‘Uncle Axel’ who was believed to have made for here—although he had very little to go on: he’d never met the old man and didn’t even know whether ‘Axel’ was his Christian name or his surname. But that could wait...

They reached the shipyard. There were a few ships in various stages of construction, plus one ship in dry-dock which was evidently undergoing repairs. Michael recognised it as a brig, with two square-rigged masts, about 150 tons he guessed. Part of the starboard hull was stove in at the forward end. There were two or three men working on the ship, and he hailed them.

“Do you know if anyone’s on the lookout for a good carpenter? I’m after a position, around here if possible.”

One of the men paused his work, and looked Michael over. “You’d better speak to the Chief. Over there,” he said, pointing to a hut across the yard.

So they went over to the foreman’s hut. Michael asked the others to wait while he knocked, went in, and introduced himself to the foreman. He explained his wishes in a few words.

“Carpenter, eh? If you’re good enough, we can certainly use a skilled carpenter. There’s not much work on just now, but it’ll pick up in a week or two when the big ocean-going ships get moving again. You say you’ve plenty of experience, but not worked on ships? Well, at least you’re honest about it—so many lads come here and tell me all sorts of stories! I can tell from your accent, you’re not from these parts, so I’m not surprised if the sea is new to you. Let’s see what you can do. We’ve still got an hour of daylight—at present we’re not working nights, but will do so when the trade picks up.”

They walked across to the brig, and went on board. Some of the foredeck had been taken up, to give access to the hull. “This is the _Dauntless_. A fine ship. I’m sure you’ve had a look around already: you can see how her hull’s been stove in, just on the waterline. Ran aground, she did, just at the entrance to Lake Melf, trying to make for the lake entrance in a strong squall. The crew abandoned her and were all saved, luckily: once the squall subsided they were able to re-board and re-float her, and with temporary patching they managed to limp her back to the harbour.”

“Is she an ocean-going ship? Sailing far?” asked Michael, tentatively.

“Yes she certainly is. Been south as far as the Indies, if you know where those are: I’m sure your friend does,” nodding towards Benjamin. “One of the fleet of ships that does the spice run, bringing back cloves, nutmeg, pepper, tea, coffee, bananas, rum, all sorts of things. Couldn’t do without her—which is why she’s in for repairs. So—how about a little job, then? You see that several of the ribs—the timbers that run crosswise across the hull, are broken. See if you can fix one of them.”

“I don’t have my tools with me,” said Michael, simply. He didn’t want to explain how he had had to abandon them in Kentak, when he and Rachel had to flee for their lives. “Is there somewhere I can borrow some?”

“Sure. Look in the tool shed over there.” And with that the foreman returned to his hut, promising to return later.

Michael took a little while selecting saws, an adze, planes, chisels, and a rule; then, with the help of one of the other workers, he picked up a suitable log from the pile of timber in the yard, carried it on board the ship, and fell to work, carefully trying to replicate the curved shape of the rib he was replacing. He was delighted to find that his skills had not left him, and in a little over half an hour he had successfully spliced in a new timber to replace the damaged rib. Just as he was stepping back to admire his handiwork, the foreman re-appeared.

“Well, well, lad! That looks pretty neat to me. And firm enough, I hope!” He went over to the newly-fitted rib and gave it a hefty kick. It did not budge. “And solid enough, too. But,” and he bent over and squinted along the line of ribs, “not _quite_ the right shape, my boy. Just an inch or two out of line. Of course, when you’re putting up rafters in a barn, or whatever you’re used to where you come from, that sort of thing doesn’t matter—but it **does** matter on a ship. If the ribs are even a little bit out of true, she’ll spring a leak.

“But never mind about that. For someone who’s never fitted a ship’s rib before, you’ve done admirably, my boy. So come along tomorrow and I’ll have a job waiting for you: you’re hired. The first thing I’ll set you to do is to repair that rib—and all the others which are broken— **properly**. One of the other lads will show you the technique for getting them true. And then, after that, there are the planks—we call them strakes—which go lengthwise over the ribs. They have to be properly shaped too. So there’s plenty of work lined up. I’m confident you’ll do.”

Michael was a bit disappointed that he had not _quite_ hit the mark with his first attempt at ship repairs, but he was delighted to get the job all the same. The foreman had not yet mentioned wages, but Rachel and he did not need much: enough to pay the rent, keep them in food and clothing, and hopefully buy them a passage across the ocean. Oh, and of course, to re-pay Peter’s loan—but Peter had already said, that could wait.

There was one more question he wanted to ask the foreman: “Do you know when this ship will be ready? When she’ll sail, and where to? My wife here and I would like to book passage, if it’s going where we want to go.”

“Can’t answer for that, sorry, you’ll have to ask the owners—and they won’t be back for a few weeks yet. I wish you luck.”

With that, they took their leave of the foreman and walked back along the waterfront. Michael and Rachel proposed to have something to eat in one of the many bars along the street. They invited Benjamin to join them, but he excused himself, saying he had to get home to Laura and the children, and supper would be waiting for him there.

“Are you OK with finding your way back to the inn? You say you are? All right then, good night.” And with a wave, Benjamin was gone.

So Michael and Rachel were left on their own to sound out the bars. Michael had already explained to Rachel his intention of seeking out David’s Uncle Axel, if there was even a remote chance he might be in the area. So they walked into the first bar and tentatively asked the landlord.

“ ‘Axel’, eh? Unusual name. No, can’t say as I remember anyone called that. Christian name or surname?”

Michael said he didn’t know.

“And gammy leg you say? Elderly, but quite tall and sturdy, walks with a stick, bushy grey eyebrows?” This was as much of David’s description of his uncle as Michael could remember. “No, sorry, can’t think of anyone fitting that description. You could try some of the other bars along the road.”

So they thanked him and went along to the next bar. They had no better success at the next four they visited. But at the sixth bar, as they were explaining once more to the landlord, an old man with a bushy white beard, who had overheard their enquiries, came up to them.

“Did you say ‘Axel’? And did you say, you heard his name from a friend of yours who knew him since childhood? I wonder if your friend got the name wrong. I used to sail alongside a chap called ‘Alex’—‘Alexander Stubbs’ was his name in full. And yes he broke his leg while at sea, and after that retired from seafaring. I haven’t seen him since, I’m afraid. Any more you can say about him?”

Michael suddenly remembered something else David had told him. “He had a wife, name of Elizabeth, lived here in Rigo, but she died while he was away at sea. That would have been his last voyage, the one in which he broke his leg.”

“Well, that fits as well. I do remember Alex had a wife living here, and that she’d died. So it looks very much as if we’ve pinned down your man. But I’m afraid I’ve not seen him for many years—certainly not come across him in Rigo recently. Sorry.”

But just at that moment another, younger man came over to join them. He was dressed in a vivid scarlet jacket, resplendent with bright brass buttons, breeches, knee-length close-fitting boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. Both Michael and Rachel were puzzled at his clothing. Some sort of uniform, they guessed. “Are you the Deviations Inspector here?” Michael asked.

“No, not exactly. But my job here is to help keep the peace—make sure that folks behave themselves!—and to help out anyone in trouble, strangers especially. We’re policemen: people here call us ‘Mounties’ because we do most of our work on horseback. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Alexander Stubbs! I recall the name. But I’m sorry, it’s not good news.”

“Please tell us,” replied Michael. “We’ve been seeking him out for a long time.”

“He’s dead, I’m afraid. A man answering your description was found lying in the roadway, about a month ago, just over ten miles west of Rigo. A horse was standing nearby, and all the evidence points to him having fallen from his horse. An accident. His neck was broken: it must have been a quick end with very little suffering,” he added, noticing that Rachel was close to tears. “And yes, his Normalcy card was on him, and it gave the name ‘Alexander Stubbs’. So it looks like that’s your man, I’m afraid. I’m so very sorry...”

At this point Rachel could no longer hold back her tears. But she was composed enough to hiss a quick thought-shape at Michael: _“It wasn’t an accident!”_ Michael, as he comforted her, couldn’t help but agree with her. _“I wonder if Yellow-Hair was involved in this? Axel was already suspected, back in Waknuk. Poor Axel—so he never made it to Rigo.”_

When Rachel had recovered herself, they thanked their new-found friends and decided to order a light supper, with a couple of glasses of ale, right there at that bar. But they could eat and drink only little of it. Wearily they took their leave and made their way back to the inn.


	26. Farewell to Peter

The news about Uncle Axel greatly depressed them. They wondered how on earth they could ever get in touch with David, to break the news to him, but there seemed to be no way—unless it were to be via Petra, and they weren’t going to involve her in this! It also set them worrying afresh about the fate of Mark and Stephanie: not a word from them since Michael and Rachel had reached Rigo. Of course, Mark’s thought-shape powers would still be rather weak, and Stephanie’s—if she had them—even weaker.

Peter and Samuel joined them again for breakfast, and asked how they had fared the day before. Michael was able to announce that they had not only secured accommodation for themselves, but that he had found himself a job in the shipyard as a carpenter. So they would be moving out of the inn later that day.

“Well done! What sort of accommodation, if I may ask?” put in Samuel.

“Just a rented room, in a house in the north of the city.” And Michael named the street.

“Hmmm. Not a very salubrious quarter, if you don’t mind my saying so, but I suppose it’ll be cheap enough. You’d better let us have the address, in case we need to contact you. I’m busy with one of my other authors today, just about to go to print, so Peter will be free to look after you for a while.”

“What’s your other author written, if you don’t mind me asking?” said Michael, who was developing an interest in books in general.

“Oh, a sort of anthropological study, going into the communities of French-speakers in Newf and Skota...”

“So there **are** French-speakers even today? Rachel and I have learnt a few words, but I thought Peter said it was a language spoken in these parts only pre-Tribulation.”

“Oh no—there are a few left: not many.”

“And where on earth is Skota? We know about Newf.”

“It’s a peninsula—a piece of land jutting out from the mainland but not quite an island. It’s to the south-west of Newf. Hadn’t you been taught about it at your school? Not many people live there: only the northern part is habitable at all, and they have a lot of trouble with Deviations—like you had in Kentak, or even worse. But there’s a small community there who keep up the French language among themselves. My author lived amongst them for a while, and speaks French fluently. She also lived in Newf for some years.”

“Skota was called Nova Scotia before Tribulation,” added Peter. “There’s a theory that it was named after a land across the ocean, called ‘Scot Land’ or something similar, but there’s no proof of this. ‘Nova’ is a word from a very ancient language, meaning ‘new’—that much I was able to discover.”

“Well, back in Kentak,” put in Michael, “we were never taught about that. As far as my teachers knew, or at least what they chose to tell us, only Labrador and Newf, and the Indies down south, were habitable at all.”

“Skota hasn’t been habitable for very long,” explained Samuel. “It’s frontier country, pushing back the Badlands and Fringe territory, over the past hundred years or so. Perhaps the books your teachers used in Kentak were out-of-date?”

“We had very few books to refer to, especially those on history or geography. Most of the teaching was done by word-of-mouth.”

“Ah well—that explains a lot. You’d have done far better if you’d been sent to the University, here in Rigo. I studied there myself when I was younger, as it happens. So did Benjamin.”

Michael was somewhat crestfallen to realise how far his own education—for all that it was far superior to what he could have had in Waknuk—fell short of what could have been got in Rigo. But it was too late to dwell on that.

“Anyway,” continued Samuel, “I must be going: a lot of work to do today. I take my leave of you, and wish you good luck, Michael, with the new job.” And with that he got up and left them.

Breakfast being finished, the others also stood up. “I’m not tied up with Samuel today, as he told you,” announced Peter, “but there is a bit of re-work I have to do on my manuscript. I can spare you a few hours if you like. I’ll be starting back for Ragnarok in about two days’ time. Is there any part of Rigo you still want to explore?”

Michael and Rachel said no, they thought they had learned enough to navigate themselves around Rigo for the present—but they’d be glad of his company if he’d walk with them for a while. They had many questions they still wanted to ask him—Michael especially had taken quite a keen interest in his and Samuel’s historical and geographical knowledge.

So they went out. It was still chilly weather, so they wore their furs. They were just a few hundred yards from the inn when Rachel suddenly slapped her forehead.

“The horses! I’ve clean forgotten about our horses! Did you remember, Michael?” “No,” he put in, rather embarrassed. Rachel continued, “They’re still in the stables back at the inn. We shan’t be using them here in Rigo, and they’ll cost us if we keep them in the stables. What shall we do? Can we sell them?”

“They’re not really ours to sell,” said Michael. “Mine properly belongs to my parents, and didn’t you borrow yours from your Mum?”

“Oh dear! Yes—and we haven’t been in touch with them for ages. My Mum—who will almost certainly have moved to live with my aunt, some miles away/ And put the farm up for sale. She must be worried sick, wondering what’s happened to me. At least, if someone does make an offer for the farm, she won’t be hard up...”

“My parents must think I’m still in Kentak” added Michael. “They too will be wondering why I haven’t written for so long.”

At this point Peter cut in, rather crossly. “You two may have forgotten, but I remembered about your horses. Been to the stables night and morning checking them over—along with my two. They seem to be well looked after. But I tell you what I propose. I’m quite happy to buy the horses off you—or rather, off your parents. If you give me their addresses, I’ll write to them, enclosing the money, and explain. But you two ought to write to your parents too. You’ve left it long enough—and I think it’ll be safe enough to send a letter by the mail-coach. There’s always a risk, of course, so be careful. Explain that you’ve moved to Rigo and Michael’s now working here—but don’t say too much—in case the letters are intercepted.”

“Should we tell them that Michael and I were secretly married,” asked Rachel. “Michael’s parents were dead set against the marriage: they won’t be pleased.”

“Yes, I think you should. That’s not something that’ll arouse the Inspector’s curiosity! Didn’t you say, Michael, that your father’s quite a reasonable man, if faced with a _fait accompli_? Circumstances have changed since he put a stop to your wedding plans. The main things you should hold back on, are your thought-shape powers and your wanting to leave Labrador altogether. And don’t give your address. If you want to ask them to reply, tell them to send to—shall we say Benjamin’s house? I hope he won’t mind. Of course that puts him and Laura at some risk, but far less risk than giving out your address.”

So they retraced their steps to the inn and asked the landlord for some paper and envelopes. All three of them settled down in the lounge to write their letters, Michael and Rachel being careful to say no more than Peter had advised them. Peter also wrote briefly to Justin. Peter thought it was best to take them to the mail-office themselves, rather than entrust them to the innkeeper, so Michael and Rachel went to their room, collected their few belongings, and settled the bill with the inn—explaining that Peter would be taking charge of their horses from now on.

Peter came with them to the mail-office, where they had no difficulty posting their letters; then he came on with them to their new lodgings. Mrs Norman greeted them quite cordially, and said they were welcome to use her kitchen—so long as they cleaned up after them! They were soon installed in their new room. At this point Peter said he proposed to return to the inn after lunch, reminding them that he had some work still to do on his manuscript.

So they had lunch at a café a few streets away, then Peter said goodbye, Michael went to the shipyard to start work in earnest, while Rachel went to buy some provisions. They were well settled in Rigo, and seemingly safe for the time being—for how long, they didn’t know.


	27. An Encounter

Michael proved himself adept at the ship repair work, and soon earned the praise of the foreman. He was working hard on the repairs to the _Dauntless_ , hoping to complete them soon—there was more involved in this than merely the repairs to the hull, since some of the ship’s superstructure had also been damaged in the storm. So the work was expected to take some weeks. He and Rachel were still hoping to find passage aboard either the _Dauntless_ or a comparable ship: traffic to the Indies was beginning to build up again after the winter break. But the ship’s owners had yet to put in an appearance.

Rachel was restless. She had little to do except keep their room clean and tidy. She did the shopping and cooking, but they ate out at restaurants quite often. Meals were cheap in Rigo, for which they were thankful: Michael was already saving quite a bit on his wages, but they still needed to be careful with their money. Rachel often came out to the waterfront to join Michael for lunch, which they had in one of the many inns along the road there.

Sometimes they met up again with the old seaman with the white beard, whose name, they learned, was Bill Morgan: the one who had first claimed acquaintance with Uncle Axel. He told them, he was fully retired from seafaring and had no plans to take ship again. “The waterfront’s a good enough berth for me, now. All I want is the smell of salt in my nostrils. Let the youngsters risk the storms!”

After a while, Michael and Rachel, feeling they could trust this man, took the plunge. “We intend to take ship ourselves, when I’ve earned enough at the shipyard. But we really want to sail **east** —not south to the Indies. To a place called ‘Europe’ if we can, or alternatively one called ‘Africa’. Do you think there’s a ship that might take us that way?”

“Well, now—that’s asking quite a lot. Many seafaring folk say, there’s nothing to see if you sail east. Just water going on for ever and ever—or even, until you fall off the edge of the world. I don’t hold with that last bit of nonsense, I know perfectly well the Earth is round—I didn’t learn navigation for nothing! There have been some reports of ships having touched islands over to the east, and even larger landmasses—continents perhaps. One of them could well be the place you call ‘Europe’—though I’ve not heard that name. But the continents may be all Badlands—and there’s no trade to the east, so you’d be hard pressed to find a ship’s captain willing to take you that way.

“But I’ll tell you what: your best bet is to find yourselves a square-rigged ship—a brig or full-rigged—rather than a fore-and-aft-rigged one such as a schooner. The square-riggers will be slower beating against the wind, and can’t go as close the wind as a fore-and-after. But they’re faster running downwind. All captains want to keep well clear of the Black Coasts (you’ll have heard about them no doubt). So they tend to steer due south out of Newf, rather than the direct route which is south-west; then they turn west upon reaching the latitude of the Indies. Takes longer but safer! A square-rigger’s captain may even steer a bit east of the line, so as to then take advantage of being able to run the trade wind towards the south-west.

“So you might get a captain to drop you off at one of those islands I mentioned. Whether you can get a passage from there to the mainland, if it really is ‘Europe’, I don’t know.

“ ‘Africa’ I do know about. Legend has it that a lot of the folk living in the Indies (black-skinned folk, you’ve probably seen some of them here in Rigo) originally came across from Africa, thousands of years ago, before Tribulation. But nowadays Africa is more or less completely uninhabitable. I don’t mean, in the way that the Badlands, the Black Coasts, are uninhabitable. You won’t die of ‘Badlands sickness’ if you set foot in Africa. But you’d die anyway: it’s all desert: no water, no food. You’d starve to death, if the thirst didn’t get you first. Hardly anyone lives there. So don’t go there!”

“Thanks a lot, that’s very helpful,” said Michael. “As it happens, I’ve been working on a square-rigger: the _Dauntless_ , in dry dock up at the shipyard. Carpentry work: that’s my main skill. Do you know that ship? Do you think they’ll take us?”

“Ah, the _Dauntless_ , eh? A fine ship! Yes I know her well, I’ve sailed in her myself. Wasn’t in the last crew, who ran her aground; I’d never have let that happen. Pack of idle landlubbers, I reckon! Well, the owners weren’t best pleased with all the expense they were put to, so they’ll probably be firing quite a few of the old crew and taking on new hands. You could try for the post of ship’s carpenter, Michael—I reckon you don’t have any experience of seamanship, which is a pity. And Rachel would have to go as a passenger. They won’t take on women as hands.”

As Michael was talking to Bill, he glanced at the saloon’s swing doors, and stiffened. Standing just outside, in the street and gazing intently over the doors, was a young, strong-looking man—about Michael’s age—with straw-coloured hair: a face that looked vaguely familiar...

But no! This man’s hair was cut short, not tied in a pony-tail. And now that Michael cautiously studied the face, it was not the man he’d seen at the farm-gate and at the funeral. However the resemblance was striking. Michael quickly turned his head away, hoping that the man hadn’t seen him staring at him.

But the straw-haired man was scanning all along the bar, and when his eyes lit on Michael he gave him a long hard look. He seemed to hesitate for a while, then he apparently made up his mind. He pushed his way through the swing doors and walked straight up to Michael and Rachel.

“You’re Michael, aren’t you?”

Michael wondered whether it was best to ignore this man. After all, he could hardly make trouble here, with so many people around, many of them Rigo people and seafarers, very different from Waknuk folk. But he decided that deliberate rudeness wouldn’t help, so after a pause he said “Sorry—have we met some place—do I know you?”

“No. But you **are** Michael, aren’t you.” Michael could only nod. “Right, I’ve got a question to ask you. A personal question. Don’t get me wrong!—I’m not here to pick a fight! Do you mind?” .... and he glanced at Rachel and the old seaman.

“Whatever you want to say to me, you can say it right here. I’ve nothing to hide,” (this was a lie). “And this lady happens to be my wife. And this is a good friend of ours,” indicating Bill. But the latter shook his head and gestured towards a corner of the room.

So the straw-haired man nodded to Rachel, and she and Michael left their friend and followed the young man to an empty table away from the other customers.

Whatever his motives, he seemed friendly enough. First of all, he offered them drinks, and when three beers arrived, they sat around the table drinking in silence for a while. The young man seemed to be taking some time before deciding how to broach whatever subject was on his mind.

Eventually he put down his glass and fixed Michael with a steady stare.

“One question. _**Did you kill my father?**_ ”


	28. An Unexpected Ally

To say that Michael was utterly unnerved and dumbstruck at this direct question, would be putting it mildly. This man, whoever he was, clearly had some connection with the straw pony-tail – a brother probably. But, notwithstanding the direct challenge, he was clearly approaching whatever he’d come for, in a civilised way. He didn’t seem to be threatening. Michael had been prepared for a gradual build-up to any ‘difficult’ question—but not this. He had to think quickly—and decided that acting bewildered would be the best approach. So he answered, hesitantly:

“No, why on earth would you think so? I’ve never killed anyone.” (As Michael said this, the image flashed through his mind of the man who had waylaid him and Sophie on their way to Waknuk. But no, it was Sophie—Stephanie—who had killed the man). “I don’t know who you are, and I certainly don’t know who your father is—was. I’ve never met him.”

“Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I know you, Michael, and you must be Rachel,” turning to her. “Name’s Luke. Luke Skinner.”

In a flash Michael realised who this man must be. “Your father was...Jerome Skinner?”

“That’s right. So you must have known him. So—did you, or any of your friends, kill him?”

Michael suddenly remembered something else. A grim thought-shape which he had broadcast in a moment of intemperate fury—it seemed like an eternity ago: _‘It_ _ **is**_ _war. Some day I’ll kill them for what they’ve done to Katherine...’_

He said, “I knew about him, though I’m sure I never met him. I’d no idea he was dead...”

“You threatened to kill him. And others,” said Luke, with little emotion. “You wanted to _‘kill those who’d done things to Katherine’_ —”

Michael wondered how Luke could possibly know that. Then it dawned on him. “You can do _thought-shapes_?”

“I can **hear** your folk’s thoughts—faintly—but I can’t **send** them. I’ve tried.”

“So you overheard some of our messages to each other—during the raid on the Fringes?”

“Some of it. I picked up that threatening message, at any rate. I wondered if you meant my father.”

“I knew that your father was suspicious,” retorted Michael. “But I never imagined that he’d be involved in the torturing of the two girls. Katherine and Sally.” He thought he might as well name them, seeing as this Luke obviously knew so much.

“He wasn’t. I don’t know who was involved in that; I was never told. I learnt about it—horrible—torturing with red-hot irons to force a confession—barbaric!” Both Michael and Rachel watched Luke’s face carefully as he made that remark: the emotion was evident and he seemed sincere enough. He continued: “I should hope my father thought the same, but I’m not sure. Anyway he was in the the raiding party that followed the Strorm children down to the Fringes. As you were, I believe. But you say you never met him.”

“I didn’t meet him when he first fell in with some of my friends,” replied Michael. “He might have been with me in the raid, but I wouldn’t have recognised him. We can exchange descriptions of people in our thoughts, but they’re not very detailed—and there were more than a hundred of us.”

“All right. But Father never returned, and we never found out what happened to him. Me and my brother, we didn’t go, we had to stay home and help out.”

“Your brother...?”

“Yes. My twin brother Simon. You’ve met **him** , at any rate. He says so, and his description fits you perfectly. He’d been working at the farm where the girl was taken away from. The one you came asking for. Very stupid of you...”

Now it was suddenly all clear to Michael. This explained why Luke looked so much like the man who’d been pursuing them—although they were not identical.

“All right. So you’ve tracked us down. Rachel and me. What are you going to do about it. Shoot us right here, in Rigo?”

“Simon’ll do just that, I think—if he finds you. He suspects you.”

“Simon can _also_ do thought-shapes?” broke in Michael, horrified.

“No. I’m fairly certain he can’t. In fact, I’m sure he can’t—otherwise he’d have caught up with you sooner. He just has this suspicion, and he means mischief. But I’m not Simon. I’m here to warn you.”

This was a new twist. Michael said, tentatively, “So you’re not in league with Simon? Have you fallen out with him...? Where is he, then?”

“Simon’s right here in Rigo, looking for you. And no, I’ve not exactly fallen out with him. Just that I need to—need to look after myself.”

“Does Simon know about your thought-shapes?” asked Michael.

“Of course not. I’m quite certain I’ve been careful enough not to arouse suspicion. If he found out, he’d probably shoot me—brother or no brother. He’s quite wild—gone crazy, I think, Simon has...”

“So how do you come to be here on your own? And what about the other guys in your party? Isn’t Simon going to be suspicious?”

“Not yet. Just that we agreed to split up for the search. You’re lucky I found you first. Simon said he’d do the other end of town first, so he won’t be here for a while. The others—they’re named Lee and Barney—went with Simon: they’re his friends, not mine. But eventually...”

Michael and Rachel had to think quickly. If Luke was deceiving them, they were as good as dead already. What could they lose by trusting him—by believing his story?

“Let’s get out of here,” said Michael, quickly finishing his drink. “Find somewhere to hide. Then you can explain the rest to us.”

As they made their way to the door, Bill, who had remained sitting at the bar, caught their eye. He quickly got up and came over to them.

“You folks are in trouble—I can see that all right,” he whispered. “I’ve guessed for a long time that the two of you—Rachel and Michael—are on the run; that people are after you. And your friend here too, perhaps?”

Before Michael could answer, Luke stepped in. “Yes, they’re on the run—and so am I. Or at least, I will have to be, if I’m seen with these folks. If you’re prepared to help us...”

“You mentioned ‘somewhere to hide’. You can come to my lodging for a few hours, if you like. Not up to much, I’m afraid, but safer than any of the inns.”

None of the three could think of any better answer to this. Michael wondered about Benjamin and Laura, but it would not now be safe to go to their house, he thought. So they quickly followed the old man out of the inn. He led them along the waterfront for a few yards, then he turned into a narrow alley between shops, which led to a flight of stone steps. Climbing these, they reached another narrow street set back from the sea. Bill took them through many twists and turnings: they were almost completely disorientated when he finally opened a door in a dingy terraced building which faced straight onto a narrow street, and they climbed three flights of stairs to reach a dimly-lit garret furnished with only a couple of tables, a few chairs, a cupboard and a bed pushed into one corner.

Bill lit a candle and gestured to his visitors to be seated.

“Not very spacious for four people, I’m afraid—but I’m used to cramped quarters on board ship. Make yourselves at home as best you can.” And he fumbled for a while in the cupboard, and produced a bottle of rum and some glasses. “At least no-one’s going to think of looking for you folks up here. But you’ll have to shift once you think you’ve lost the pursuit.”

The three of them thanked him profusely, and Michael eyed the bottle warily. “I’ve seen men drinking rum in the inn, but I’ve never tasted it myself.” “Nor have I,” put in Rachel. “Nothing stronger than wine....”

“Well, now’s your chance to sample the strong stuff. You’d better get used to that, if you’re still thinking of taking ship. You can add some water if you prefer,” and he produced a jug.

Luke was evidently quite accustomed to the strong liquor: he drank his straight off. Michael and Rachel were more hesitant: they watered their glasses down and then took experimental sips: the drink made both of them cough and their eyes water. Bill and Luke chuckled. Eventually Rachel managed to master the strong drink and gulped it down: Michael following some time later with some difficulty.

Michael and Rachel, both feeling the warmth of the drinks pervade their bodies, felt it was now high time to ask Luke plenty of questions. There was a lot of explaining that needed to be done.

“First of all,” began Rachel, “tell us why we should be trusting you, at the same time as your brother wants to kill us? What is it between you and your brother?”

Luke thought for quite a long time, whilst Michael and Rachel (as well as Bill) eyed him warily. Then he began. “It’s quite a long story. You know, of course, that Simon spotted you—recognised you, at that funeral. He suspected you all along of being involved in some way with our father’s death or disappearance. And you still haven’t explained that...”

Michael felt that he now had to give some account of the scene in the Fringes clearing. But he didn’t want to recount the full horror of the carnage. Having no choice but to mention the Zealand people briefly, he said that some travellers from a far off land, arriving in some sort of flying ship, had launched a ‘superior weapon against which Fringes people and Labradoreans alike were powerless’. Michael and his friends had only been spared because they had the thought-shape powers. If Jerome Skinner had been in the clearing, he would certainly have been among the dead...

After a while Luke continued: “I think I believe you. And your story agrees to some extent with the tales other men who escaped brought back. So what they called the ‘spider’ was in fact a flying machine?”

“Correct,” replied Michael.

“Well, once Simon saw you he wanted to go after you straight away, but he had to round up his friends, and me, first. I agreed to go along—partly to try and rein in Simon whenever he flew into one of his rages—which was often enough! Once we established that you and Rachel were no longer in Waknuk, we guessed you’d make for Kentak—and it didn’t take long to find out where you were staying. You were lucky to escape us there—and even luckier to manage to lose us on the Rigo road.”

Michael and Rachel smiled at each other.

“So eventually we realised you must have turned off the road somewhere. We argued for quite a time as to whether you’d gone north or south: I said, I thought you’d gone north towards more barren country, but the others insisted you must have gone south where there were more houses to hide up. So we found a trail leading south and visited I don’t know how many farms and villages, asking after you. Each time we drew a blank. Simon was getting more and more worked up; at last I persuaded him to abandon the southern search and strike north. So we went back to the main road and took a path to the north.

“Here we had a stroke of luck. We came to a village called ‘Kipalup’ where the store-keeper remembered a couple answering your description, calling in and buying some stuff. He told us that you’d stopped the night with an old lady in the village—”

“ _ **Beth!”**_ Rachel couldn’t help exclaiming, just before clapping her hand to her mouth—too late.

“Yes, that was the name the man gave us. Aha! So you **had** passed that way! I knew I had got it right!

“So we asked the store-keeper to point out her house, and went up and knocked. At first the old woman denied everything, said she hadn’t had any visitors for over a year, said they must have got the wrong house. But Simon was insistent, and rudely went on ‘Try to remember, old woman. A young man and girl, only a few weeks back. Think again.’ But the woman repeated that she knew nothing about it; that she’d had no callers.

“Then Simon ‘lost it’. Big-time. He shouted ‘Dirty lying bitch!’ and went for the lady. I tried to intervene, but Barney and Lee held me back. He threw a punch full on the lady’s face. She fell to the floor, groaning. I wanted to stop and see if she was badly hurt, but Simon grabbed her purse then he and the others bundled me out of the house and back to our horses.”


	29. Luke’s Story Continued

“Oh! Poor Beth!” exclaimed Rachel. “No, that can’t be true: surely no-one in their right mind could possibly assault and rob a harmless old lady like that!” But Luke shook his head, saying “But he did. I couldn’t stop him.”

“Do you know how she is? She was so kind to us.” Rachel wisely chose to say nothing about the way Beth had cheated them, nor the fact that some of the money Simon stole was undoubtedly Michael’s.

“Give me time, I’ll answer you,” continued Luke. “We rode out of the village at a gallop, and continued for about a mile; then we stopped. All of us, except Simon, were visibly shocked. I made up some sort of excuse to go back for something I’d dropped; Simon tried to stop me but the others didn’t, and after an argument I left them. I doubled back as quickly as I could to Beth’s cottage, where I found the door still open and she was still lying on the floor, moaning and bleeding. I picked her up gently and sat her in a chair, wiped down her face and put a bandage on the cut she’d suffered, but apart from that and some bruises, she seemed to be all right. She recovered a bit when I gave her some wine: the strongest drink I could find in the house; I hunted around for brandy but there wasn’t any. I was still quite a bit worried about her, so I went to the shopkeeper and spun a tale: said she’d suffered ‘a bit of a fall’. He promised to go and see her and send for a doctor, and I gave him the money for a small bottle of brandy and asked him to take it to her. So then I rode back towards my companions. They’d started to come after me, wondering what had taken me so long, but I managed to bluff my way out of suspicion—I think.

“So we rode on. Eventually we reached another, larger village where the innkeeper remembered putting you up for a couple of nights: he also mentioned that you’d shown interest in and copied a map he had on the wall. This set us thinking, you might well be seeking a remote village or farmstead to lie up for the winter.

“But the winter was indeed rapidly advancing and it was getting too cold, especially for our camping stops. So, once again not without some argument, I tried to persuade Simon and his companions to return home with me and set out on the search again once the weather got warmer. We nearly came to blows, but eventually both Barney and Lee saw the sense in this and talked him round. So we returned: I to my mother’s house, Simon to the farm where he was working, and the others to their homes.

“We found that Waknuk and the surrounding districts were in quite a stir now. Everyone seemed to know, by now, more about the disaster of the ‘Fringes battle’: that nearly a hundred of our best men had been killed, including Joseph Strorm—and my father, as I believe. For a long time everyone had been too afraid to re-visit the battlefield to try and recover the bodies. But after some months, a couple of the braver men had risked the journey: but they found only skeletons, of both men and horses. Plus a whole lot of lengths of what looked like an odd sort of twine, which they couldn’t account for: nothing they’d seen before. They brought back some pieces but no-one in Waknuk—nor even in Kentak, could figure out what they were made of or what their purpose was. But perhaps you know?

“Later on the Police turned up. The ‘Mounties’, as they call themselves. We’ve never had police anywhere near Waknuk before, have we? I assumed they’d been sent from Rigo to investigate the battle, too—but I was wrong: they seemed more interested in the torturing and murdering of those two girls. They interviewed me and my mother, and presumably Simon too, but we had to tell them we knew nothing about it, and they believed us. They did pick up some men, though: I don’t know what happened to them.”

Michael and Rachel had been listening attentively to Luke’s story, and felt happy that so many points fitted in neatly with their own experiences—surely Luke could not be lying! It seemed that he was indeed trustworthy—though they had to be careful with him: there were things he might still be hiding from them. They asked him to continue. What happened when spring came?

“As it happened, the snows melted earlier than usual this year, but I expect you already know that. So we were able to set out once again, with fresh horses, not long after our return. First thing we did was return to the inn with the map, and we made a copy, just as you had. The idea was to sound out all the towns and villages marked on the map, to see if we could pick up any trace of you. I went along with that, because I felt sure the trail must have gone cold by now—but Simon was still governed by his obsession that you would be ‘found and dealt with’.

“So we worked our way through dozens of houses and farmsteads, each time drawing a blank. Although both Simon and I did get suspicious of one of the villages we searched: name of ‘Ragnarok’.” Michael and Rachel exchanged surreptitious smiles at this—and silently thanked Peter and Justin for their diligence. “I thought I’d picked up a few thought-shapes in the neighbourhood—although I didn’t say anything about this. I don’t know what aroused Simon’s suspicions—but it wasn’t thought-shapes, I’m sure of that.

“But we turned nothing up, neither there nor at any of the other places we tried. In the end even Simon was persuaded to give up the search, and we decided to press on for Rigo. After all, as Lee remarked, that’s where most fugitives head for: it’s easier to lose oneself in the metropolis.

“But I need to tell you of another incident before we reached Rigo. Simon’s horse had gone lame, so we were looking around for another. As luck would have it, we fell in with an old man on horseback. Simon hailed him, and bluntly made an offer for his horse. Not surprisingly the old man refused point-blank. Then Simon got in a rage again, he dismounted and shouted that if the old man wouldn’t sell, they’d take the horse by force.

“Something in Simon’s manner must have frightened the old man’s poor beast, because it reared up, throwing him violently to the ground, and then bolted...”

“Uncle Axel!” burst in Rachel and Michael, together.

“Ah, I guessed you might have known him. Oh dear, I’m very sorry, now I have to break this to you, but he didn’t survive. He must have broken his neck in the fall, anyway Lee (who has some medical knowledge) pronounced him dead at the scene. At least it was a quick end.”

“We already knew that he’d been killed,” said Rachel, “so don’t feel so bad about telling us.”

“Simon, meanwhile, had mounted my horse and galloped after the runaway horse. Eventually he caught it and brought it back to us. So we now had four fit horses. We couldn’t bury the old man or take his body with us, so we thought it best to leave him for someone else to discover. And we left the lame horse.

“So we came to Rigo. And, to be quite honest, that last fit of rage of Simon’s, which was directly responsible for an innocent man’s death, was the final straw as far as I’m concerned. I’m in your corner now, and Simon and his friends can go their own way. Though it’s quite possible that his friends—in particular Lee—won’t be his ‘friends’ for much longer...”

“ ‘Axel’s real name was Alex Stubbs, and yes he was a friend-of-a-friend, sort of,” said Michael. “He was Bill Morgan’s friend too,” glancing at Bill. “Yes, the body was found by the Mounties—the police. He was an old seafarer, and we’d been hoping to find him in Rigo, to ask his advice about getting a sea passage. We knew he’d be heading this way. But that’s all over now.”

All this time Bill had been sitting at the table, mute but paying deep attention to what was being said. But now it was his turn to speak.

“I was indeed a good friend of Alex, as Rachel and Michael already know. I have to say, any friend of Alex’s—even if they’re only a ‘friend-of-a-friend’—must surely be counted as one of my friends. I’d be delighted to help you out in any way I can—take Alex’s place, maybe.”

“Oh Bill! We’d be ever so grateful,” Rachel burst out.

“So,” said Bill, “this is what I propose. Luke, you go back to your brother and his friends: I presume you’ve arranged a place and time to meet up.” “Yes we have,” Luke cut in. “Meanwhile,” Bill continued, “Rachel and Michael will have to hide up here for a day or two. It won’t be comfortable, I’m afraid, I’ve no spare beds, but I can lend you a couple of blankets. And the rum will help keep you warm! Luke, you’ll have to play along with your brother; he’ll want to continue searching. Just make sure he doesn’t find this place.

“In the meantime, I’ll try and find out if there are any ships sailing in the next day or so. Doesn’t matter where to. What could be better, than convincing your pursuers that you’ve taken ship and are out of their reach? I think we might be able to fabricate a story.”

So Luke took his leave of them, after assuring Bill that he could find his way through the twisting streets, back to the waterfront. The remaining three looked at each other questioningly.

“Can we really trust this Luke—if that’s his real name?” said Rachel, breaking the silence. “He’s spun us a good tale, I agree—and it does seem as if he can read thought-shapes. I remember what your reaction was after we heard about Katherine...”

After another long pause Michael replied. “I think …. I think we just have no choice but to trust him. If he’s as good as his word he’d be a tremendous asset to us, putting off the pursuit. But that doesn’t mean we’re out of danger....”

“Indeed not,” remarked Bill. “You two stay here, that’s the safest. I’ll go out and find out what ships may be sailing. Oh, and Michael, Rachel, you have money on you, I believe. Give me some of it, then I can buy food for all three of us.” Without hesitation Michael passed some dollars to Bill. “Also, lock the door after I go out, and don’t open it to anyone but me. I’ll knock with a special signal: one loud tap, pause, three soft taps.”

“One loud; pause; three soft—got it. Does it mean anything?”

“Oh, it’s only what we call ‘Morse Code’ An ancient signalling system, really ancient: goes way back to the Old People I believe. We seafaring folk still use it sometimes: flashing the reflected sun’s rays from one ship to another or to shore. You can send a message miles, that way. What I’ve given you is the signal for the letter ‘B’. All right, my name’s really ‘William’ but ‘B’ for ‘Bill’ will do.”

With that, Bill went out, promising to be back before long.

Michael and Rachel could do little but sit and wait for him. Michael helped himself to another glass of rum-and-water, and insisted on pouring a glass for Rachel too. They downed them simultaneously: Michael was once again seized by a fit of coughing and spluttering, but, surprisingly, Rachel was able to swallow hers without any discomfort. Michael watched her in amazement, then he burst out laughing—the first time he’d laughed for a long while. Rachel joined in, and they both exploded in a fit of uncontrolled giggles, which ended in them locked together in a passionate embrace and kiss.

“Now?” whispered Michael.

“No, of course not! Don’t be silly! Bill could return at any time. And if anyone else comes prowling around, we’ll need our wits about us.” Michael could only agree, but he could not refrain from slipping a hand inside her blouse. He realised how much he wanted her, even in these anxious times...


	30. Escape Planned

Bill was as good as his word. Scarcely two hours had passed before the one loud and three soft knocks were heard at the door: Rachel quickly went to unlock it, and Bill pushed his way in, shut the door and hastily locked it again. He had food in his bag: some sausages, some bacon, a loaf of bread, some butter and cheese, a few apples—and another bottle of rum—all of which he dumped unceremoniously on the table.

“You’re in luck, my friends. I’ve been down to the harbour: there’s a ship berthed there which is due to sail on the morning tide three days hence. It’s only going as far as Lark on Newf, carrying timber—then it returns to Rigo. But it’ll certainly be safer for you to be on Newf than in Rigo—or anywhere else on the mainland. And I’ve had a word with the captain, an old friend of mine, and he’s willing to take you on board for thirty dollars apiece.

“In fact, I don’t mind coming along with you myself, if you’re willing to pay my passage for me: more than I can afford. Yes I know I said, the other day, I feel I’m too old for the sea. But you can’t keep an old sea-dog like me on dry land forever! I’d offer to work my passage if I could, but I’m getting a bit too old for that. It’s a long time since I’ve been to sea, and I know a couple in Newf—a retired seaman like me, and his wife—whom I’d be glad to meet up with after all these years. They keep writing to me, inviting me to visit, and I’ve kept putting them off. If we go together, I could introduce you to them: they’re a lovely couple.”

Michael and Rachel at once jumped at this plan. The sooner they got away from Rigo, and away from possible pursuit, the better. Even if Luke was indeed trustworthy, as he gave every appearance of being, he could hardly hold his brother off the trail for long. Every day they continued to spend in Rigo was more and more dangerous. And they were happy for Bill to come along: it seemed only fair to pay his fare as some sort of recompense for all the help he had given them.

A question suddenly occurred to Rachel. “Have you been married, Bill?”

“No. I’m a confirmed bachelor, and happy that way.”

“A pity,” Rachel continued. “You’d make an excellent husband—if you ever changed your mind...

“But we now need to make arrangements. All our belongings are back at our lodgings, and Michael’s supposed to be still working at the shipyard. How are we to get to these places safely, what with this ‘Simon’ on the prowl?”

“And we simply must say good-bye to Benjamin and Laura, too,” added Michael. “And through them perhaps we could get a message through to Peter’s group—and even our parents at Waknuk. Besides, I still owe Peter some money.”

They looked enquiringly at Bill, who sat pondering for a while. “Let’s think about this in the morning. Perhaps it’d be safer to travel around town by cab.”

“ ‘Cab’? What’s that?” asked Rachel.

“Haven’t you noticed them? Small one-horse carriages plying the streets of Rigo, just big enough for two or three people. You can hire one for a dollar or two if you hail the driver, he’ll carry you anywhere you like in town. I suppose you’ve been walking all the time. You’re safer in a cab. But now let’s eat.”

It was already quite late in the evening, and they shared a hearty meal of sausages, bread and cheese, followed of course by rum-and-water. Then they settled down for the night: Rachel and Michael wrapped up together in their blankets, rather uncomfortably on the floor. Despite the blankets the night was chilly for them, and they slept little. Towards dawn they did manage to drop off.

When they woke it was already daylight. They found that Bill was already up and about: he’d been out to the pump and there was a pail of fresh water on the floor; Bill was heating another pailful on the stove. He placed it before them and then tactfully turned his back while Rachel quickly washed herself, followed by Michael. Then they settled down to toast, bacon and tea, finished off with an apple each, and, once again, a generous mug of rum-and-water. Michael was at last getting the hang of it!

Bill announced that he would go down to the waterfront and try to summon a cab. After reminding them to lock the doors and wait for the secret signal, as last time, he popped out, promising not to be long.

In less than twenty minutes he was back. “I’ve hailed a cab, but it can’t come right up to the door: the cabman says the streets are too narrow. At least, that’s what he says: I think the cab would just about pass through, there’s a route without steps—but maybe he’s worried about the horse taking fright. Anyway, I’ve asked him to wait on the waterfront.”

Michael and Rachel took the cue and at once followed Bill down the stairs and out into the street. They quickly wound their way after him through the narrow streets until they reached the waterfront. Sure enough, there was a small cab standing there, the horse snorting and tossing its head as if it were eager to get going again. Michael and Rachel clambered aboard.

“Just tell the cabman where you want to go,” shouted Bill. “Don’t bother to give directions: these chaps know their way around Rigo better than anyone. And I’ll be back in my room when you want me.” With that, he waved as they set off, the horse at a canter.

The first place to call at, they decided, was their lodgings. As the cab drove through the streets they kept their heads down and avoided looking out of the windows, to reduce the chance of being spotted. When they reached the house they asked the cabman to wait and quickly slipped indoors, but not quickly enough to escape the attention of Mrs Norman, who was curious to know why they hadn’t returned the night before. Rachel quickly came up with a story about their having fallen in with some friends and stayed the night at their place. Mrs Norman gave them a knowing smile at this—perhaps she’d noticed the smell of rum on their breath! But luckily she didn’t ask any more questions.

They quickly went into their room and gathered up all their possessions, which they stuffed into a couple of large bags, and the rest of their money. When they emerged Mrs Norman was still standing there. Now came the difficult part. Rachel insisted on doing the talking.

“I’m afraid we shan’t be staying here any longer, Mrs Norman,” she announced, tentatively. “We’re going away from Rigo in a couple of days, so we need to give up our tenancy.”

“Well, that’s more of a surprise!” replied Mrs Norman. “I suppose I should be asking you _why_ you suddenly need to leave Rigo: after all you’ve been holding down a good job at the shipyard, I hear, haven’t you, Michael? But I’ve had other tenants quit for no apparent reason, and I’m thankful that you at least had the courtesy to tell me rather than just do a ‘flit’. I guess you’re in some sort of trouble.” Michael nodded. “But don’t worry,” continued Mrs Norman, “I’ve been in the business long enough to know not to ask questions.”

Both Rachel and Michael showed visible relief.

“But I’m afraid I require my tenants to give notice, so I’ll be asking you for two weeks’ rent to cover it.”

Michael was minded to protest at this, but Rachel pounced on him with a quick thought-shape. Reluctantly he brought out the requisite number of notes and handed them to Mrs Norman, who quickly stuffed them in her apron pocket.

“Oh, and another thing,” added Rachel. “If anyone comes asking after us, giving a description of us—you don’t know anything.”

“Why, you _have_ got yourselves in trouble—I can see that. But I’ll do as you ask.”

Having said their farewells to Mrs Norman, they climbed back into the waiting cab.

“Where now?” asked Rachel.

“I think the shipyard,” replied Michael, “where I’ll have to go through this awkward explanation all over again.”

Once at the shipyard, they again asked the driver to wait. Rachel stayed in the cab with their luggage, while Michael made his way quickly to the foreman’s hut, hoping not to be seen. Once there, again he hesitantly delivered his message.

“You want to leave—just like that?” said the foreman, alarmed. “That’s very disappointing: you’ve been an excellent worker here and I’d be sorry to lose you. May I ask why?”

“It’s personal—but we’ve got to leave Rigo straight away, Rachel and me. I can’t say any more.”

“I suppose you mean to sail on the _Pinta_ , which leaves for Lark in a couple of days... But I insist on knowing what’s up: are you in trouble with the Police?”

“No, it’s not the Police.” Michael realised he had to give a plausible explanation. “It’s just that someone bears us a grudge and is after us. That’s all I can say.”

“All right. I believe you. But, Michael, I’m not going to let you go, just like that. I’ll give you a week’s leave so that you can sort out your affairs. Then, if you’re still in Rigo, come back here and, if you want, your job will still be open. And I’ll give you your wages to date. That fair enough?”

Michael had to agree to this. Hurriedly he returned to the cab and they set off again, this time heading for Benjamin and Laura’s house.

“I think we should let the cab go this time,” said Rachel. “All this waiting will have cost us a lot of money.” So they paid off the cabman; he whipped up his horse and drove away.

When they knocked, Laura answered the door, surrounded by her children. She welcomed them in, explaining that Benjamin was not at home; he was working at the hospital. They sat down and watched the children at play while Laura busied herself with cups of tea.

“Good of you to come and see me; I’m sorry you’ve missed Benjamin, unless you’re willing to stay a while until he comes home.”

But Rachel explained that they couldn’t stay long. “We’re leaving Rigo, in two days’ time. Ship to Newf,” she explained. “So this is good-bye, I’m afraid.”

“Good heavens! That _is_ rather a surprise. I thought you were well settled here, and you’ve got your steady job at the shipyard still, haven’t you, Michael?”

“I handed in my notice this morning,” replied Michael. He knew he needed to explain, and luckily he remembered the cover-story they’d used before. “You remember, when we first visited you, we talked about some people were after us? Pursuing us because we’d been sheltering a Mutant, so we were told?” Laura nodded. “Well, they’ve nearly caught up with us,” continued Michael. “We’ve had reports that they’ve been seen in Rigo, searching all over for us. So we need to hide for a couple of days, then take ship and hope for the best. We can’t stay any longer here: it wouldn’t be safe for you if these guys turned up—and they might have got on to you.”

“I think I understand,” said Laura. “Well, all I can say is, good luck!”

“Oh and another thing,” said Rachel. “We ought now to pay back the money Peter lent us—now we can afford to. If we give it to you, could you send it on to him?”

“We’d be glad to,” replied Laura. “And we’ll write him a letter too, telling him where you’ve gone to. If you think that’s advisable...”

“It’d be all right if the letter doesn’t fall into the wrong hands,” replied Michael. “No, better not mention Newf, if you don’t mind. Just say we’ve put to sea in an ocean-going ship—be vague about it, don’t say where to.”

With that, Michael and Rachel stood up and took their leave of Laura, who kissed them both. Rachel also picked up each of the little girls in turn and kissed her. The girls were a bit tearful upon realising that the visitors were about to depart, so Laura had to comfort them.

“Oh, one last thing, Laura. Can you tell us where we can hail a cab?”

Laura explained that if they walked to the corner of the road they might find a cab standing there: if not, one should turn up in no more than a few minutes.

Once outside, Michael and Rachel lugged their heavy bags as far as the corner, but there was no cab in sight.

“Do you think we could walk all the way to Bill’s place?” suggested Michael.

“With these bags? You must be joking!” retorted Rachel. “ _You_ may be able to carry yours that far, but _I_ can’t. Besides, it’s dangerous.”

So they waited. Sure enough, in just over five minutes a cab came along and they hailed it. Climbing aboard, they realised that they would need to give directions to somewhere near Bill’s room. Luckily, Michael remembered the name of the bar where they had first met Bill, so he called up to the cabman, and they were on their way.


	31. Setback

By chance, Bill was drinking in that same bar, the one where they’d met him, but as soon as he saw them he stood up and hurriedly led the way back to his lodgings.

“You’d best lie low for today and tomorrow,” he advised. “Let’s hope Simon and his mates don’t find us. Once the ship has sailed, you’ll be safe. I’ll scout around. They won’t know me—unless Luke isn’t the friend you think he is...”

That seemed like sound advice to Rachel and Michael, so they spent the rest of that day and the next day in Bill’s lodgings, sorting out their belongings and putting to one side those that they thought they wouldn’t need for the voyage. They sent out Bill to buy provisions, and also, at his recommendation, good waterproof jackets and trousers for both of them.

“...for there’ll be plenty of salt water flying around, if I know the Labrador coast and the Straits of Newf!” remarked Bill. “Even in the summer it can get rough. And you’ll have to learn your sea-legs once you’re aboard. I can’t help you there: it may be uncomfortable for both of you.” He chuckled.

At mealtimes the rum was passed round liberally, and both Michael and Rachel were developing a liking for the liquor. “Don’t overdo it!” warned Bill. “Neither of you is used to strong drink. But it’ll be a help when you’re aboard ship, you’ll see!”

Bill had meantime been down to the harbour and confirmed the passage for the three of them, aboard the _Pinta_. Michael had given him the dollars for the fares: he noted that after all the purchases they’d had to make, they weren’t so well-off as they had been, but they’d get by.

On the day of the _Pinta_ ’s sailing they were up at dawn, and after a hurried breakfast Bill closed up his lodgings and they quickly made their way to the harbour. Sure enough, the ship was berthed there, almost ready to set sail, with a gangway leading up to it from the quayside, where there was quite a crowd of people gathered to see the ship off. On deck they could see one of the crew, the bosun they guessed, standing at the head of the gangplank to help them aboard, and behind him were waiting the captain and first mate.

Rachel was first on the gangway, with Michael following, carrying their two heavy bags, and Bill in the rear. All three of them had just stepped on board, Bill was introducing Michael to the captain, and Rachel had turned around to cast a glance back at Rigo for the last time...

There was a sudden sharp crack. Rachel gave a gasp and crumpled to the deck. A large bloodstain was spreading on her side. She lay there moaning...

Michael was stricken. What could have happened? He spun round, and for a moment he stood there frozen. But only for a second or two, then he took a step and bent over Rachel. But before he could touch her he was violently shoved to one side, and sprawled on the deck himself. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that it was Bill who had pushed him. At that moment there was a second sharp report, and this time it was Bill who groaned and collapsed on the deck—and there was blood on his chest, too.

When Michael had managed to struggle to his feet, he could see that there was quite a mêlée on the quayside. The crowd had surrounded a young man whom they appeared to have wrestled to the ground. A young man with a straw-coloured pony-tail, clutching a rifle...

To Michael it was all unreal. He could not grasp what had happened. There was Rachel lying on the deck, bleeding. A few feet away Bill was lying on the deck, bleeding. Was everything in his life about to be snatched away? And just as they were on the point of resolving their difficulties, of escaping to a safe haven....?

He bent over Rachel again, and put a hand over her wound, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. The ship’s captain and others of his crew were gathering round them, some of them attending to Bill who appeared to be in a bad way. Three Mounties, on horseback, conspicuous in their red jackets, had arrived at the quay and dismounted: two of them took charge of the gunman, while the third bounded on deck. He gently drew Michael away and took over the first-aid on Rachel; gently cutting away her clothing, fetching out a large bandage from a bag slung over his back, and wrapping it around her. Then he gently lifted her and carried her to the quayside where a wagon was already waiting. Meanwhile the captain and two of the crew were carrying Bill, who was a heavy man, to the same wagon. Both the wounded were carefully loaded onto the wagon and wrapped in blankets. Then the driver whipped up his horses and they set off at a fast canter.

Michael was still rooted to the spot, unbelieving. The Mountie gently took him by the arm, and asked him, “Are you with the young lady?” Michael nodded. “Come with me then.” He led Michael to where his horse was still standing, helped him up, and then mounted in front of Michael, ordering him to hold on tight. As soon as they had threaded their way out of the crowd, he urged the horse to a gallop and in only a few minutes they were at the hospital entrance.

A nurse appeared and the Mountie explained the situation. She then took charge of Michael and led him along several corridors until they reached a door. She told him to wait, and went through the door. A minute or two later, she came out again.

“Your friend—what is her name?”

“Rachel—and she’s my wife.”

“You can’t go in and see her right now. They’re just about to operate. The doctor says she’s lost some blood, but hopefully she’ll pull through.”

“And what about Bill? Bill Morgan? The old man who was brought in with her?”

“I don’t know about him. He must be in another ward. I’ll try and find out. Best you can do is sit here”—she motioned to a chair in the corridor—“and wait.”

Michael sank into the chair, numb with shock. He buried his face in his hands and tears started trickling through his fingers. He could not think clearly—he sensed that he was sending out muddled thought-shapes, but there was no-one to hear them.

He must have been sat like that for an hour, or maybe two hours, when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Startled, he shuddered and glanced up. It was Luke. There was a big bruise on his face. Instinctively Michael shrank back from him.

“Michael, I don’t know what to say. I really don’t. If you’d rather I went away, I’ll go. But please let me stay and explain. _Please_!”

Michael said nothing. After a long pause, he nodded.

Luke sat down next to Michael, and began, speaking slowly. “Michael, this is simply awful. I hoped it would never come to this. I did my best. I met up with Simon and the others, like I said I would. I spun a yarn. I told them that I’d found out that a couple resembling you had been seen in Rigo, that you had taken lodgings somewhere to the north of the town. That part was true, I believe! And I knew you wouldn’t have gone back to your lodgings. I wanted to delay their searching the waterfront as long as possible.

“Well, Simon was doubtful at first, but since they hadn’t any other leads, they followed up my suggestion. We checked out a great many lodgings and annoyed equally many landladies with our intrusive questions, but after a couple of days we’d still drawn a blank—as I knew we would.

“Simon suddenly turned on me. ‘You’ve been lying to me, my odious little brother!’ I denied it of course, but he continued: ‘You’ve been bullshitting us all along. OK, we’ll carry on the search without you. Now piss off!’ I told him to calm down, then he went for me. His friends held back. I got in one or two punches, but then he floored me with a good punch to the face—as you can see.”

“I lay in the street, dazed, for a few minutes. There were some people about, but they simply walked round me. I guess fist-fights are not all that uncommon in Rigo! Anyway, when I came to my senses and got to my feet, the others were nowhere to be seen. I thought it best to run back to the waterfront, to Bill’s place, to warn you—but then I thought, no, not a great idea—it might lead Simon on to you if he was following me. So I thought I’d check out the shipping—I knew you were thinking along those lines but I wasn’t sure whether you would be pretending to go to sea or really going to sea.

“But I found out about the _Pinta_ sailing on this morning’s tide (she didn’t, by the way: the police put a restraining order on her). Trouble is, Simon and his friends must have thought along the same lines. I lay up for the night in an empty shed, but this morning I got to the harbour too late to stop them. Honestly, Michael, I tried. I just couldn’t get to him before he fired the shots.

“Simon’s been arrested. Attempted murder. And so have Lee and Barney. I don’t know what’s happening to them. I ran after them to the sheriff’s, but the police wouldn’t let me see them. Not even my brother. I’m off to have another try—but I’ll be back, if that’s all right by you.”

After a pause Michael nodded once again. Luke then disappeared down the corridor.

At that moment the nurse reappeared, accompanied by a doctor. Michael wearily raised his eyes, then his heart gave a bound when he recognised Benjamin. He leapt to his feet and embraced him joyfully.

“I’m so glad it’s you! Have you any news?”

“Well, we’ve done our best for Rachel,” said Benjamin, once he had disentangled himself from Michael’s grasp. “She’s very weak, and lost a lot of blood; we’ve given her a transfusion. But the bullet just missed her vital organs and we’ve got it out and stitched her up. She’s got a broken rib, I’m afraid, and it’s going to be painful for her for some weeks, but I think she’ll live.”

Michael couldn’t hold back his tears, once again, but this time they were tears of relief. Then he checked himself. “What about Bill Morgan? The old man?”

“I don’t know: he’s not in my ward,” said Benjamin. But the nurse broke in, “I’ve been to his ward and spoken to the doctor there. I’m afraid he’s still in a bad way. Unconscious and breathing irregularly.”

“He saved my life!” cried out Michael, passionately. “He damn well saved my life! He pushed me aside, and took the bullet that was meant for me. Oh, please let him live!”

“We’ll see, it’s too early yet to say.”

“Can I see Rachel?”

“She’s under sedation and won’t be responsive—but I suppose you can pop in for a moment. Sorry, I’m needed elsewhere.” With that, Benjamin excused himself and left, leaving Michael with the nurse. She ushered him into the ward.

Rachel was lying propped up on pillows, looking very pale and appeared to be asleep. Michael sat quietly by the bedside and clasped one of her hands in both his. He tried sending thought-shapes but there was no response. However Rachel did seem to be breathing normally, and the nurse announced that her pulse was strong and regular. She did not seem to mind his staying there, and after a short pause she left them, telling Michael to call her if there was any change.

So Michael sat by the bed for a long time—it seemed like hours, murmuring very softly to Rachel in the hope that she might hear, and sending very gentle thought-shapes in case she could pick them up. There was no change in Rachel’s condition, but he persuaded himself that she was just sleeping it off. At some point the nurse brought in some bread and cheese and a cup of tea for him. But he could eat little. Later in the afternoon he dozed off for a while, still seated by the bed.


	32. A Lost Friend

Michael was roused by the reappearance of Benjamin, who came in and gave Rachel a quick check. He announced that she was in good shape and would probably be responsive in a couple of hours.

“But I’m afraid I’ve got very bad news for you. Your friend Bill Morgan—the old man—he didn’t make it. We did all we could, but he died about an hour ago. I am so sorry...”

Michael was shattered at this news. He had almost put Bill out of his mind, while he was concentrating all his thoughts on Rachel. But now the tears streamed down his face, with remorse and bitterness.

“He was so kind to us!” he cried out, through his sobs. “He was even going to come with us to Newf. And it was because _he_ pushed me over, that _he_ took the bullet meant for _me_. _I_ should have been the one killed, not him!”

“He’s gone. Sorry. All you can do is remember him, then, for his kindness—that’s the best way to honour his memory,” replied Benjamin. “I never met him, before he was brought here unconscious, but the way you describe him, he must have been one of the best of men.”

There was a long pause whilst Michael tried to collect himself, wondering all the time how he would break the news to Rachel. Eventually his sobs subsided and he composed himself.

“We only knew Bill for a few days; but he did more for us in those few days than many friends would have done in a lifetime. And he had a good friend, also a retired seaman, a mutual friend as it happens: Alex by name, though my friend David always called him ‘Axel’. And Axel also died recently, he’d been thrown from a horse.” Michael decided not to mention the exact circumstances of Uncle Axel’s death as related by Luke. “To lose those two wonderful people within a matter of days—I can hardly bear it...” Michael muttered on, partly to himself, until at length Benjamin interrupted him:

“If you can bear it, I’ve another thing to say to you—but don’t worry! Just that there’s a police officer waiting outside. He’s asking to have a quick word with you, if you feel up to it. Don’t worry: I’ll get the nurse to keep an eye on Rachel in the meantime.”

Michael wiped his eyes and slowly and stiffly rose to his feet. He recognised at once the importance of co-operating with the police, especially now that this was a murder case. But he was fearful of what he might be questioned about. He and Rachel still had a lot to hide!

Slowly he stepped out of the ward and came face-to-face with the Mountie in the corridor, who led him into an empty room where they sat down round a small table. The Mountie took down the details of Michael’s and Rachel’s full names and ages, places of birth, and the address where they’d been living at Mrs Norman’s. All innocent stuff, and Michael had no thought of deceiving him. Except that he did not mention the fact that they’d lain up in Bill’s lodgings for the past two days. That might complicate matters! Then the Mountie continued:

“You’ve been told that this is now a murder case, Michael. I understand that the victim was a good friend of yours—I’m sorry about that. But I need you to tell me, briefly in your own words, _exactly_ what happened as you were trying to board the _Pinta_.”

Michael told the story of the calamity as best he could: the Mountie took down his words verbatim and then asked him to read back and check over his statement before signing it. Then he folded up the paper and stood up.

“All right, thank you, that’s all I need from you at present.” Michael felt relieved. “But I must ask you to stay in Rigo for the present, until we get in touch with you again.”

“We haven’t got anywhere to stay, at present—except here at the hospital. We relinquished our tenancy at Mrs Norman’s place just before we were set to sail.”

“Go back to Rachel’s side for now: I’m sure she needs you more than I do. The hospital will probably let you stay here for a few days. But if you find accommodation elsewhere please let the hospital know, so we can keep in touch with you.”

Michael, reflecting on the statement he’d just given, and encouraged by the policeman’s friendly approach, suddenly thought of something else. “How was Skinner—if it was Skinner—able to get in _two_ shots so quickly?” he asked. “I’ve used a gun myself often enough for hunting, back in my time out west—though I prefer bow and arrow—and it takes me a good minute to re-load.”

“Never seen one of these?” replied the Mountie, pulling out his revolver and emptying the bullets onto the table. “You’re probably used to guns where you have to load the powder and shot from the muzzle. We have better ones than that in Rigo! These are rounds—see?—where the powder and bullet are all packed together one little metal case. In a rifle, you just put one of these in from the breech end, cock, and fire. Can all be done very quickly. Which, I’m afraid, turned out worse for your friend—and for Skinner.”

As the Mountie was picking up the bullets and re-loading his revolver, another question occurred to Michael. “What’s happening to the Skinner boy?”

“He’s in custody at present. It’s not my call, but I expect he’ll be sent before a magistrate and indicted for murder.”

“And what happens then?”

“He’ll have to wait for trial at the Assizes. You and Rachel will probably be called as witnesses, I should warn you. And if he’s found guilty of murder, he’ll probably be hanged.”

“ _Hanged_?” repeated Michael, stunned. All at once the words sent by thought-shape, so long ago it seemed now, came back to him: _‘It_ _ **is**_ _war. Some day I’ll kill them for what they’ve done to Katherine.’_

But that had been a cry, not for **justice,** but for **revenge**. Much had passed since those days of the pursuit; Michael had been immersed in the more liberal, enlightened atmosphere of the metropolis for some weeks now; and he had long since dismissed the thoughts of revenge from his mind. All he wanted now was for justice to be delivered to those who had tortured and killed the two girls.

So he was shocked to learn that, even in Rigo, people could be executed for crimes. Biblical justice indeed, and also much discussed in _Repentances_. But was this the justice of Rigo too?

Another memory came back to him. Poor Anne, Rachel’s elder recently-widowed sister, found hanging from a beam. But that had been her own choice, by her own hand...

While he was turning over these thoughts in his mind, the Mountie had collected up his papers and taken his leave. Michael walked back to Rachel’s bedside. Her eyelids were now flickering and it seemed to him that she may be able to hear him—or receive his thoughts.

“ _Rachel, my dear,”_ he began, in thought-shapes.

But there was no thought-shape response from Rachel. Instead, her eyes opened, her lips stirred and she weakly mumbled the word “Michael?”

“Yes, it’s me, Michael,” he said, resorting to words.

“Are you all right, Michael? What’s happened to me? Are we on board ship?” The words now came tumbling out from Rachel as she gradually rallied her strength.

“No, we’re not on the ship; we’re back in the hospital in Rigo. And I’m quite all right. You were shot, Rachel, **shot!** —but you’ll get over it. The doctor—Benjamin, you remember?—he says you’re doing well, you should recover fully. And I’m unhurt. It was that beast Simon who shot you, and he’s under arrest now. So we’re safe from him, at least.”

“And Bill? Where’s Bill?”

Michael decided that now was not the time to break the news to Rachel—she was still very weak. “I don’t know. He was hurt too. I’ll see what I can find out. But what matters now is **you**.”

At the moment the nurse came in, and Michael told her that they had been talking. Having quickly examined Rachel, she pronounced that Rachel was still very tired and Michael must not excite her so much. She ought to be allowed to rest now. So Michael sat down by the bed again, clasped Rachel’s hand, and waited...

Hours passed. It was now late in the evening. More sandwiches and tea were brought to Michael, who discovered that he was now hungry, so he ate the lot. Eventually the nurse re-appeared.

“That same policeman who spoke to you earlier: he’s outside again and would like another word with you. If you don’t mind.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” said the Mountie, when they had once again seated themselves around the table. “I’ve been stationed outside the hospital entrance to keep curious people away—since this is a murder case. But I’ve had a message from my boss—from the Police Chief of Rigo. He’d like to speak to you, as soon as convenient. Can you come over to the Sheriff’s?”

“When? I’ve got to stay with Rachel for now.”

“I know. The Chief said, no hurry, come when Rachel’s improved enough. I’ll be on hand, should you wish to contact us.”

Michael returned to Rachel’s bedside, wondering what the Chief wanted with him, and his sense of alarm heightened. He wondered if it was something Simon had come out with, while he was being interrogated. What could he have blurted out, other than the obvious? But there was no sense in panicking: the police here seemed decent and friendly enough—compared with the law-doers in Waknuk, at any rate! He could at least hope for justice.

As he was pondering these thoughts, he fell asleep in the chair.


	33. Interview with the Chief

The following day Laura, Benjamin’s wife, turned up. She reminded Michael that she had once been a nurse; she’d left the children with an aunt for now and was come to see how Rachel was doing. Rachel had improved a lot during the night: she was now fully awake and able to talk normally. The first thing Laura did was hand back the money they’d given her in repayment of Peter’s loan.

“Lucky I hadn’t sent it off yet,” she explained. “I’m afraid you’re going to need it to pay the hospital bill. I hope it’s enough. Peter will just have to wait a bit longer.”

Michael was inclined to protest at this, but Rachel pounced on him. So they accepted the money.

Laura promised to bring the children to see her in a day or two: something that would cheer up Rachel no end. Rachel, indeed, seemed delighted at the prospect. She told Michael she was quite all right with Laura around: she practically ordered him to go out and stretch his legs for a while. Michael was reluctant at first, but Rachel was insistent, so out he went. The first person he met outside was his friendly Mountie, and it occurred to him to ask what had happened to their belongings, which had been left abandoned in the fracas on board the _Pinta_.

“I think they’ll have been taken to the Sheriff’s office. If not, they’ll still be on board the _Pinta_ : you could ask there. She’s not going to sail now until tomorrow at the earliest: we’re still doing a search. Don’t worry: your things are sure to be in safe keeping.

“Glad to see you outside anyway: I hear Rachel’s doing well. At some point we need to ask you about your friend Bill Morgan’s next-of-kin. We’ve searched his room but can’t find anything useful except a few letters. Can you help us out?”

“I don’t think so. We only knew Bill for a few days, and he never talked about any family. The only thing I can remember is that he said he was a bachelor.... No, wait! He did mention something about some friends he had in Newf. They’d written to him inviting him to visit—and for the first time in ages he was taking up the invitation. That’s why he was sailing with us...” At this point Michael could not refrain from shedding a few tears once again.

“Thanks, that’s very helpful. We’ll check through his letters. If we find out who they are we’ll get the Newf police to notify them. So where are you going now?”

Michael explained that he was going to see if they could take up their old lodgings at Mrs Norman’s again, or failing that seek out new accommodation. He’d also call at the shipyard and explain why he wanted his job back. And he had to find out where his belongings were.

Then he took his leave of the Mountie and set out on foot for Mrs Norman’s house. She was not as surprised to see him as he expected: she’d heard, as had everyone in Rigo by this time, about the shooting on the _Pinta_ —though it was news to her that Rachel was the one injured. She offered her best wishes and gladly offered Michael the same room once more: even offering to let them stay out their ‘notice’ before asking for rent.

Michael’s next call was at the shipyard. The foreman, too, knew all about the shooting, and he was expecting Michael to call in. Once he heard about Rachel’s injury, he reassured Michael that he could take as much time off as he needed, but once Rachel was up and about he’d be expected back at work.

Finally Michael called in at the Sheriff’s office, but they knew nothing about any luggage. So he went hot-foot to the harbour and set foot on the _Pinta_ ’s gangplank. He noticed that there were still bloodstains on the deck, chalk marks had been made and a team of Mounties were diligently searching all over. One of them stopped Michael as he was about to step on board. Michael quickly explained who he was and his mission, and the Mountie asked him to wait while he went below deck. Sure enough, a few minutes later he returned with their two bags. Michael thanked him and returned to the hospital, not without some difficulty because the bags were very heavy.

Rachel was pleased to see him back, and was in high spirits. She inquired once again about Bill, explaining that she had been so thrilled at Laura’s visit that she’d forgotten all about him, that morning.

Michael decided that sooner or later he’d have to tell Rachel, so it may as well be now. He broke the news as gently as he could.

Rachel’s face fell and tears welled up in her eyes, but she took it rather well, Michael thought. “I think he must have gone peacefully,” she remarked. “Perhaps it was better for him to die like this, than to be drowned at sea. My only regret is that he never took a wife: if I’d got the chance I’d have done my best to set up a match for him: he was such a lovely man.”

“That’s what others have said too,” replied Michael. “And remember, he saved my life. What does it say in the Bible? _‘_ _Greater love hath no man_ _than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends’_. I remember having to learn that at school...” And Michael shed some tears, too.

A few days later Rachel was able to get out of bed. She still complained of an intense pain in her side, which Benjamin explained was due to the broken rib, not the bullet-wound, which had by now healed up. He urged patience; the pain would continue for some time. Michael had spent his time gravitating between the hospital, the shipyard, and Mrs Norman’s.

At length the message came from the Police Chief, that if Michael was ready, he would like to see him now. So Michael went over to the Sheriff’s and was introduced to an imposing, rather stern-looking man in his forties, with a black beard and dark eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. He was dressed in a plain suit, not in Mounties’ uniform. Michael was at first strongly reminded of Joseph Strorm, but no—this man would be of an entirely different character. Or at least, so he hoped. They shook hands.

“I expect you’ve guessed what this is about,” the Chief began. “As you know, we’ve been interviewing the suspect Simon Skinner. He’s made some allegations about you and your wife, and we want to check them out.”

Michael’s heart sank. So this was it. He thought it best to try and bluff, as Sally and Katherine had at first (although it hadn’t saved them).

“Sorry, I’ve no idea what he could have been talking about.” he ventured.

“Let me explain more explicitly, then. He alleges that the two of you are telepaths.”

Michael remembered the word that Peter had used. He rose to his feet in a panic.

“No! Sit down, Michael and please let me explain. If you _are_ a telepath, that’s no reason to be afraid of us. Oh yes, I know what happened to the two girls in Waknuk district—no! Don’t look surprised—and I can assure you that’s not how we do things here. In fact the Government is reviewing the whole position of telepathy at this moment: coming to a decision as to whether it can be classed as a Deviation in the first place. So, I need to ask you, _are you and Rachel telepaths?_ ”

Michael decided that he had no option but to admit it. He briefly nodded.

“Very good. I hoped that would be your answer. So the next question is, are you and Rachel prepared to go and meet the Governor to talk about it?”

“The Governor? Who’s he?”

“The head of the Government. In effect, the leader of Labrador: the most senior person in the country. You’re both highly privileged to be given a chance to meet her. Yes, it’s ‘ **she** ’, not ‘ **he** ’.”

“A woman!” broke in Michael, astonished.

“Indeed a woman. Name’s Hilary Bligh. Yes, I know, where you come from, out west, women are not held in high regard, most of them stay at home to do the housework and look after the kids, while men do the ‘important’ jobs. But it’s not like that here. My predecessor as Police Chief was a woman. There are women police officers, though they don’t wear the Mountie uniform so you may not have realised. There are plenty of women sitting in the Government, and if a woman’s the best person for a job, she **gets** the job. You’d better get used to that.”

“There are many new things I’m having to get used to.” Michael was still feeling a sense of immense relief that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t about to be cast out as a Mutant. “So, when do we get to see the Governor?”

“She’ll check with the hospital that it’s all right for Rachel to come, and then she’ll summon you. And you’d better be sure to keep the appointment: the Governor’s a busy woman and one doesn’t mess around with her.

“One more thing. We’ve released the remains of your friend Mr Morgan to the morticians, but there was very little money, either on his person or in his rooms. Not enough to pay for a funeral. He could be given a pauper’s funeral, but that’s a very basic affair.”

“Oh, we’ll pay for the funeral,” announced Michael at once. He knew that, with him resuming his work at the shipyard, they’d be able to afford it. He didn’t suppose anyone else would turn up at the burial, but they were enough to give Bill a decent send-off.

“Very well—I’ll send a message to the morticians and tell them to expect you some time. Here’s the address,” and he wrote it down on a slip of paper.

“Well, that’s all I need to talk to you about,” said the Chief, shaking hands with Michael. “I understand the Governor’s going to go through a lot more detail with you, but that’s her business. And I’m glad you didn’t make any difficulty about coming out as telepaths. Believe me, it’s in your best interest.”

“What about the two girls back at Waknuk? It wasn’t in _their_ interest.”

“I quite understand your anger. You must believe, the Government doesn’t sanction torture and murder, not even of Deviants. It’s something that we’re looking into right now, but I can’t tell you any more. The matter’s still under police investigation, and indictments may follow.”

With that, and reasonably satisfied, Michael took his leave.

At the hospital, Laura had brought her three girls round to see Rachel a few times, after having strictly enjoined them to be on their best behaviour. And the plan worked: Rachel seemed to be improving more rapidly when the children were around. In a few days she’d be able to leave hospital.

In due course the message arrived inviting Michael and Rachel to present themselves in the Governor’s office. Rachel was out of hospital by this time, and back at Mrs Norman’s; Michael was back at work at the shipyard. Bill’s funeral had taken place: they thought they might be the only mourners present, but to their surprise Luke had turned up, along with Laura and Benjamin, and a couple of old sailors, friends of Bill’s apparently, whom Michael didn’t recognise. One of the sailors mentioned that the captain and first mate of the _Pinta_ would certainly have come, but they were still at sea. Bill was given a basic but dignified send-off, and Rachel read out a psalm at the graveside.

So on the day of the Governor’s meeting they dressed up in the smartest clothes they had: Rachel wore a frock she had bought in Rigo for the occasion—without a cross on the front, but then most women in Rigo didn’t wear the cross anyway. And they made their way tentatively across the town, to the Governor’s mansion.


	34. Interview with the Governor

The Governor’s office, when they came to it, was far from being the sumptuous palatial chamber they had been expecting. In fact, it was a room not much larger than the inspector’s office back at Waknuk—or the Police Chief’s here in Rigo. And it was modestly furnished. Clearly the Governor had nothing of the pretentious about her.

Hilary Bligh, the Governor, was a short and slim woman in her sixties, with steely grey hair and a prominent chin. She wore spectacles which she sometimes pushed down her nose. She was dressed in a demure grey skirt and jacket—with no cross (Rachel was reassured at that). She shook hands, greeted them cordially and invited them to sit down. As they did so another man, who’d been standing in a corner, walked across the room and joined them.

Michael and Rachel cast one glance at him and gasped in amazement. It was Peter!

“You know each other, of course. Yes, I’ve invited Peter to come along. I know about him and I know he too will be interested in what I’ve got to say to you. And I know you’ll be pleased to meet each other once again.”

“That’s very good of you, Governor,” put in Rachel.

“ ‘Hilary’, please! In my office we’re on first-name terms, Rachel. And you too, Michael.

“So,” she continued. “You three are full telepaths. You may not know this, but there are several hundred of your kind scattered around Labrador. I say ‘full telepaths’ to distinguish you from those who can only receive thoughts from other telepaths, but not send to them. There are quite a number of those too.”

“We’ve met at least one of those too,” remarked Michael—perhaps a little injudiciously.

“So be it. We are also aware that you’ve been using telepathy very little whilst you’ve been here in Rigo. That’s understandable: you felt you were in danger of persecution. It’s also very wise of you. We know full well what’s been happening in Kentak region, and beyond there in Waknuk. And I can assure you that the treatment of those two poor girls is not tolerated in Labrador. Those who perpetrated it will be sought out and brought to justice, make no mistake. You can count on us...

“We are also reviewing our policy towards human Deviations in general. It is clear—at least, to the Government it is clear—that the Fringes process is not working and detrimental to the peace of the land. We have only the evidence of the terrible massacre of the raiding party from Waknuk, alongside many innocent Fringe-dwellers, to assure us of that! But more on that later. I understand that you were a witness, Michael, and I’m going to ask you about it.”

“Yes, Hilary,” said Michael. He wondered how much else the Governor knew.

“I can’t tell you now what the changed policy will be—that’s still being debated by the Government and I must not forestall them. Besides, we have to come to some agreement with the Right Wing Church group—who are most influential in your part of Labrador—and that’s not going to be easy. They give us enough trouble right here, in the Government. But I sincerely hope that some accord will be arrived at, which will result in a more humane approach towards those with minor Deviations.”

Michael though of Sophie—Stephanie—and how much she had suffered. One extra toe on each foot... that was all.

“One thing we can be sure of: we regard you telepaths as an **asset** to our culture, not a threat. We see no reason why you should not be allowed to integrate fully with our society. And Michael, we should have been very sorry to lose you: I’ve contacted the foreman at your shipyard and he says you’re an excellent worker. As to you Peter—how could we possibly manage without your insight, especially into Labradorean and pre-Tribulation history? You’ve recently had your latest book published: I’ve read it, and I hope there are more to follow.”

Peter shyly voiced his acknowledgement. In front of the Governor, he was surprisingly demure.

“In fact, there may come a time when we wish to **exploit** your telepathic powers—for rapid communications over a distance, for instance. But there’ll be no pressure put on you for now. In fact, I hope never to see coercion of telepaths into working for the Government—not while I’m Governor, at any rate!

“Now—coming back to the Fringes massacre. We didn’t send any police to the Fringes, because the surviving folk there were alarmed enough already and we didn’t want to provoke another conflict. But two men from Waknuk had apparently re-visited the scene incognito, and brought back some curious samples. When I heard about this I ordered the samples to be sent straight back here to Rigo for analysis. We’re not quite sure, but we think it’s ‘garrotte thread’.”

“ ‘garrotte’?” exclaimed Michael and Rachel, simultaneously. “What does that mean?”

“Also known by some as ‘mercy thread’. A misnomer if ever there was one! A really nasty secret weapon. And there’s only one country in the world, as far as I am aware, where they possess the knowledge to manufacture the stuff.”

Michael took a long shot. “You know about— _Zealand_ ?” He took care to pronounce the word correctly.

“Indeed we know about Zealand. Probably more than you do. And more than most sea-goers do. Our communication with that country, which is carried out very discreetly via the Indies, is still top secret.

“Anyway, this garrotte thread is a strictly controlled substance, and dangerous to handle. It’s only intended to be used as a last resort on aggressive wild animals—Deviants especially—and only if there’s a threat to human life. Never against people. I have given orders that on no account are these threads to be brought to Labrador. We have our own ways of dealing with dangerous animals. But now it may be that they have been deployed, not only in Labrador, but against _humans_.

“So, Michael, can you describe what you saw.”

“Indeed I can,” replied Michael. “Not only saw—but _felt_ , too. Some of the threads stuck to me: immensely strong and sticky threads—and I couldn’t pull myself free. Even the horses couldn’t free themselves. It wasn’t until the Zea—” He broke off. He hadn’t intended to say anything about the ‘Sealand—Zealand—woman’.

“Please continue. The Zealand who? The Zealand what?”

Michael had no choice. “The woman who came from Zealand. She played a sort of spray on me and my friends, and that loosened the threads. Then she took my friends away on her flying-machine, but I stayed behind.”

“This ‘woman from Zealand’. Can you describe her please?”

Michael was beginning to get worried again. But the Governor seemed determined. He continued: “Well, she was a very pretty young lady. In her thirties I guess. Brown eyes, dark straight hair cut short—just above the neck. Very smooth pale skin. And she had very strong telepathic powers—compared to us.”

“Aha!” said the Governor, with a smile. She reached into a desk drawer and brought out a piece of stiff paper. On it was a picture of a woman’s face, but it was not a drawing, such as he’d been taught to do at school: it was a more exact likeness: almost as if the woman was actually _looking_ at him through a small window. Except that there was no colour in the image: just grey tones. But still instantly unmistakable and recognisable— 

“Yes! That’s her! No doubt about it. So you know about her—”

“About Bernadette. Dear Bernadette! Indeed we know about her. That answers a lot of my questions. This piece of paper is called a ‘photograph’. It’s a fairly new way of representing someone’s face, or anything else for that matter: still being worked on, but very useful, as you have seen. So you’ve met Bernadette. I’ll bet she spun you a good yarn...”

“What do you mean?”

“Her story about her people—the telepaths—becoming the new ‘master race’ and preparing to ‘take over’ from ordinary, non-telepathic people—including myself. Her assertion that telepaths, because they could share thoughts, would inevitably be more powerful than other races. Her stories about Zealand being a paradise island entirely populated by telepaths—which it isn’t, for that matter, there are only about two thousand there and they’re by no means the governing class. She probably rabbited on a great deal about ‘evolution’ and how any species had to die out to give way to others. She probably mentioned ‘dinosaurs’. If I know Bernadette, she lectured you long and hard on this—and, although there’s truth in some of her concepts, a lot of it is just a pack of lies.”

“But—she spoke to us in _thought-shapes_. Telepathically,” put in Rachel. “You _can’t_ lie with thought-shapes. We’ve known that all along. Which is why we had to be so careful while my sister was alive.”

“You and Michael can’t, almost certainly. You just haven’t had enough experience, you’ve not been practicing long enough. In essence, you’re both too young. Peter, I don’t know about.” Peter showed no reaction. He had barely spoken during the meeting. “But Bernadette _can_. Remember, she’s one of the most powerful and most experienced telepaths in Zealand, and she’s had plenty of time to develop the ability to lie with her thoughts. And sometimes I wonder if she actually _believes_ all this stuff she spews out—which would make it not a lie at all—in her mind. More of a sort of self-delusion. But probably not: Bernadette lies through her teeth—or, to be more accurate, through the telepathic part of her brain. I know it.

“Anyway, I have in the past issued strict orders that Bernadette is not permitted to set foot in Labrador. Oh yes, she did approach me. She came to Rigo by boat, not by airship (though it doesn’t surprise me that she has somehow acquired one). She wanted to seek out the best telepaths in this country, and spirit them off to her community in Zealand. Yes, she commands a modest group of telepaths in that country, and is quite well-off, I understand: where she gets her money from, I don’t know. She was keen to visit areas where telepaths are persecuted, especially out in the far west, like your Waknuk. I refused. I told her that her visits would only provoke more persecution of those who must, of necessity, be left behind. And any persecution in my country was _my_ responsibility, and my _Government_ ’s responsibility, and my _Police_ ’s responsibility. Not hers. She left in a huff, sailed straight off back to Zealand, visibly annoyed.

“So now, it seems, she has defied my order and entered Labrador illegally. It may be only Fringes territory, but it’s still Labrador, and hence still my responsibility. And moreover, your description, Michael, confirms my suspicion: she has got hold of garrotte thread—I don’t know how, you need special licence from the Zealand Government, which she certainly wouldn’t be granted—she got this awful weapon somehow, and she has deployed it against _humans_. That woman has a lot to answer for, and I shall be notifying the Zealand Government. A Government consisting mostly of non-telepaths, I should tell you. And I’m on good terms with their Governor, despite the necessary secrecy of our communications.

“And if Bernadette ever sets food in Labrador again, she _will_ be arrested. And tried for murder. We shall be seeking her extradition, in any case. In Labrador our aim is to deliver _justice_ , not mass murder. That’s my mission; that’s what I’m Governor for. Whatever may have been practiced in Labrador in the past.”

Hilary stopped and let her speech sink in. Michael and Rachel could only sit there, silent and dumbfounded. This utter demolition of the character of this lady—this lady who they had thought to be the saviour of all telepaths everywhere—this they could not absorb. It seemed utterly impossible—incredible. Was it possibly the Governor instead, who was now lying to them? But Peter was nodding, and now at last he spoke up.

“Some of what you have said, Hilary, is news to me—but not all. I should explain,” he said, turning to Rachel and Michael, “that we’ve been in correspondence, Hilary and I, for some years now; going back to before she became Governor—although this is the first time we’ve met face-to-face.

“Michael gave us a good, detailed account of what happened in his trip to the Fringes, when he was staying at my house. I have to say, now, that I had my suspicions about the ‘Sealand woman’s real intentions all along. I even mentioned my doubts to Rachel and Michael: suggested that Zealand was a place best avoided. But what I didn’t know was that there were so few telepaths in Zealand—I thought they numbered in the hundreds of thousands, or even millions. Are you sure about that, Hilary?”

“Quite sure. As I said, I know the Governor of Zealand: we’re in touch regularly, we’ve met once or twice. He’s fully aware of their community and keeps a close watch on it, despite not being a telepath himself. All that stuff about telepaths being a ‘superior’ or ‘more powerful’ race is just poppycock, as I’m sure you now realise. It’s like saying that a circus acrobat, because he can stand on his hands, is ‘superior’ to folk who can’t.

“But for now, I’m afraid I must cut this interview short. Meetings to attend to,” and she sighed. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to this meeting: you’ve been a tremendous help. So, you young people, what are your plans now? I would wish you to remain in Rigo for the time being, if you that’s agreeable to you. I’m almost certain to want to speak to you again. You are no longer under the threat you were before, and Michael has a good job here. And Rachel, you may be able to find work here, too. Think about it.”

And with that, the three took their leave of her.

“Peter,” whispered Michael, grabbing his arm as they were leaving the building, “I still owe you money. I was going to send it to you but I needed it to pay the hospital bill. I think I’ll have enough to repay you in a few weeks, but—”

“No problem, Michael, pay me when you’re able to. I got a good advance on my book, I’m in no hurry. But we’ll keep in touch. What do you make of our friend Hilary?”

“She sounds very convincing. And I can’t get that ‘garrotte-thread’ image out of my head—not ever. I think that’s what decided me that staying in Labrador, going to Rachel, was better than fleeing to Zealand. Where does that word ‘garrotte’ come from?”

“I suppose you’re asking the right person for that! But I’m not sure: it’s certainly not a Labradorean word and, as you know, most of my research has been centred around Labrador. My best guess is that it’s the word, in a forgotten foreign language, for ‘strangle’ or ‘strangulation’.”

“Ugh! Don’t, please!” exclaimed Michael, not wishing to be reminded of the scene any more. He changed the subject. “Are you staying at the same inn while you’re here?”

“Yes I am. And you’d better give me your address here, so we can keep in touch.” Michael promptly wrote down Mrs Norman’s address on a slip of paper and handed it to Peter. “Hmm... not the most salubrious quarter of Rigo,” Peter continued, “but I suppose you’re safe enough there. When you’ve earned enough, Michael—and you Rachel too, hopefully—you should look for somewhere better. A flat, or even a house, perhaps.”

“We’ll think about it,” replied Rachel. “Yes, certainly we’ll think about it.”

With that they took their leave of Peter, promising to call at the inn before his departure. As they were walking back to their lodgings (slowly, because Rachel was still in some pain), Rachel glanced slyly at Michael several times without speaking. At last the urge conquered her diffidence: she looked up at Michael with a strange smile:

“Michael, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it, dear?”

“I’m late.”

“Late? What do you mean, late? Oh—you mean _late_!” with a sudden flash of realisation.

“I was three weeks late when we were going to board ship—when I got shot. I hadn’t wanted to tell you before, because I was afraid you’d want to cancel the trip. And afterwards! When I was able to, at the hospital I asked Benjamin—and Laura too—whether the baby had been harmed, whether it was still alive. Benjamin gave me a thorough examination, he listened very carefully through his stethoscope, but of course he couldn’t be sure at this stage. But both of them were at pains to assure me that the baby was most likely to have survived: the bullet went nowhere near him or her. And I’ve had no symptoms since then to suggest otherwise. I think he, or she, is still there...”

“My goodness!” exclaimed Michael, almost dumbfounded. “What a sly one you are! But that’s brilliant news. I couldn’t have asked for better—especially as it looks like we’re settled in Rigo for a while instead of gallivanting all round the world. I’m absolutely delighted. And we’ll have a future together, us and Junior... won’t we?”

He paused for a moment, remembering Stephanie—the girl who couldn’t have children.

“...but I wish I knew what happened to Mark and Stephanie.”

“Maybe one day we’ll find out,” said Rachel quietly.

## End Of Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Note:_ Peter's suggested etymology for 'garrotte' (or 'garrote') is incorrect: according to _Chambers_ , the word comes from an old French word _garrot_ meaning 'stick'.


	35. Stephanie and Mark

## Part II

## Chapter 35

### Stephanie and Mark

Stephanie (formerly Sophie) and Mark were sitting quietly on a grassy bank beside the Kentak road, a few miles out from Waknuk, munching sandwiches. They had loosely tethered their horses and allowed them to rest and graze.

Much had changed in Waknuk, and they were finally on their way; following in the footsteps of Rachel and Michael—or so Mark convinced himself; although Stephanie had been unusually quiet about their plans recently.

Amelia, Rachel’s mother, had sold the farm and gone to live with her sister, as she had promised. The Strorms’ farm, called Waknuk like the village, had also been sold—to Angus Morton. Many rumoured that he’d acquired it ‘at a bargain price’, seeing as Sarah, Joseph Strorm’s second daughter, was reputed to be a poor negotiator. Sarah denied this, of course. Mary, the elder daughter, had married and left Waknuk: she refused to get involved in the sale, although she did get her share of the proceeds. Sarah, along with several of the farm-hands, stayed on at the farm, temporarily in charge. She was still unmarried, but one of Morton’s sons certainly had an eye for her: they were often seen together and most people in the district predicted that wedding bells were not far off. With Joseph dead, Angus Morton’s feud with the Strorms was long since ended, and certainly he no longer objected to a union between the two families: indeed he rather encouraged it.

Emily, Joseph’s widow and Sarah and Mary’s mother, had never really recovered from the shock of losing Joseph, David and Petra all at once. She was allowed to stay at Waknuk as an invalid, but Sarah was tasked with caring for her. She kept to her room most days and barely spoke.

So Stephanie and Mark were on the road at last. It was not the ideal time to set out on a journey, since winter was fast drawing in, but they had taken care to carry warm clothing. And they had made a convincing forged identity/normalcy tag for Stephanie to carry, giving her the same surname as Mark (‘to avoid questions on the journey,’ as she had declared, ‘—but don’t make any assumptions!’). She also wore a plain gold-coloured ring on her left hand middle finger—which she was prepared to transfer to the fourth finger ‘if necessary’.

They also had a tent and some blankets, two bows with arrows, and a gun, though Mark hoped he’d never have to use it. It was quite a load for the two horses, but they seemed capable enough.

And Amelia had made them a handsome present out of the proceeds of the farm sale—they had been been reluctant to accept it, but Amelia had insisted; “Besides,” she’d added, “I want you to do your very best to track down Rachel; find out where she is, and what’s happening to her. You’ll need money. I have a sort of ‘feeling’ that all’s well with her, but I can’t be sure...”

Mark proposed that their first destination ought to be Kentak, to which Stephanie promptly agreed. After all, that was where Michael and Rachel had been making for, the last time they had been in contact. Since then, they had heard nothing. Besides, Mark had a suspicion that his thought-shape powers were diminishing once again: the fever that he had suffered must have had some long-lasting effects. Since there was no-one in range, except Stephanie, with whom he could communicate, he couldn’t be sure about this—but Stephanie, whose powers, on the other hand, seemed to be improving, said that his thought-shapes were getting weaker. This would make it more difficult for them to track down Michael and Rachel, of course.

Luckily, there had been no apparent suspicions about them, during their stay at Waknuk. Mark had had no occasion to project his thoughts once Michael and Rachel were out of range, and Stephanie, of course, had taken pains not to repeat her mistake—so many years ago now—of revealing her feet to any stranger. Amelia was the only other person in Waknuk who knew—and Amelia was trustworthy. So they were able to follow the Kentak road at a more leisurely pace without fear of pursuit.

It was evening when they entered Kentak. Mark knew the town slightly: he had visited it once or twice in the past, though he had not shared Michael’s privilege of being schooled there. They had some difficulty in tracing their way through the streets to the flat shared by Michael’s two friends—the last place where they believed that the fugitives had stayed—but finally they were able to dismount, tie up the horses, and knock on the door.

It was opened, just a crack, by a tall man slightly older than either Mark or Michael, who eyed them with some suspicion. At first he seemed reluctant to admit them. Mark gave their names and explained that they were friends of Michael and Rachel, who he believed had called on them some months earlier. At this, the man asked them to wait for a moment, then he disappeared inside, closing the door on them. Mark and Stephanie waited.

After quite a long time the door was opened again and the two were ushered inside; then the door was firmly closed again and bolted. There the man who had admitted them named himself as Jack, and introduced them to his flatmate Adrian, who was about the same age as Jack, but shorter, with a bushy black moustache.

After staring at the visitors for a while, Adrian began, somewhat defensively, “So you’re friends of Michael are you? Michael who used to live here? What do you want to know?”

“We just want to know if he, and Rachel, stayed here, for how long, and where they went on to,” said Mark. “We’re trying to catch up with them.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Just that we’re their friends. What’s with all this suspicion?” retorted Mark, getting somewhat annoyed and edgy.

“Calm down,” replied Adrian. “Do you have any idea what happened here, during the time they were here?”

“What _happened_!” Mark’s heart sank, and he feared the worst. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stephanie’s face contorted with horror. “You don’t mean—you don’t mean they were followed? Arrested?”

Adrian smiled. “Aha. I think that’s good enough for us to believe you.” Jack nodded. “You must forgive our suspicions. But I’m fairly certain that if you had been what we were afraid you might be, you wouldn’t have reacted like that to my question—nor come out with that remark. So we’re better explain to you what happened here. Jack?”

“Please don’t worry,” continued Jack. “It’s not what you’re thinking. Last time we saw them, they were perfectly all right. But it was a near thing. Yes, Michael and Rachel did call in here, a few months ago. Michael said they were in a great hurry: he was leaving Kentak for good—he didn’t tell us why—and he gave us his share of the outstanding rent. And another thing. They said they’d got married just after they arrived in Kentak.”

“ _Married!_ ” Stephanie exclaimed, with evident delight. “That’s wonderful! I couldn’t be happier for them. How did they manage it, with so little time to spare?”

“We think they did a sort of ‘do-it-yourself’ wedding, in an empty church. Probably not legal, but fair enough for us! Anyway we treated them to a sort of ‘wedding breakfast’ and then they settled down for the night in Michael’s old bedroom.

“But in the middle of the night some rough young fellows, four of them, came banging on the door. County folk, by the look of them: certainly not locals from Kentak. They demanded to come in and search for some fugitives—‘Blasphemies’ they said they were. ‘Blasphemies’ my foot! If they were meaning Michael and Rachel, well they’re as normal as you and I are.” Stephanie felt an uncomfortable itch in her foot, but said nothing. “So we told them, no way are you stepping inside without a search warrant. They said, they don’t need a warrant, but we held our ground.

“At that they tried to force their way in. Well, the one who was their ringleader, I guess—chap with a ponytail—tried to go for us, landed a punch or two—but then his mates held him back. It took a while, but eventually we managed to force them out and close the door on them. I stood guard while Adrian went to warn Michael and Rachel. He came back and said they’d disappeared. At that we both went to look: their belongings were gone too: they seemed to have grabbed everything and got out through the window. Their horses were gone. When we got back to the front door the four young men had also run off. We just hope we gave Michael and Rachel enough time to get a good enough start. If I know Michael, he’ll know plenty of back ways and hidden paths around these parts, and he’s country-bred. He should have been able to shake off the pursuit if there was one. With any luck...”

“I just hope you’re right,” said Mark. “We’ll want to get after them as quickly as possible. You think they were aiming for Rigo?”

“That’s what they said,” replied Adrian.

“Well, that gives us a start, at any rate.” Mark was aware of Stephanie looking at him as if she wanted to interrupt him, but she said nothing. “Whatever happens, we can’t thank you enough for what you did. You may have saved their lives.”

“Are you going to tell us what it was all about then? Are they Deviational in some way?”

“I suppose the truth will come out some time, anyway, and I’ll have to trust you,” said Mark. “You’ve heard of the raid from Waknuk district. On the Fringes?”

“Yes, we heard about it. Nearly all of the men got killed, so we heard. Dreadful business.”

“Did you know what the purpose of the raid was?”

“Something about intending to give the Fringes folk a hell of a beating,” replied Adrian. “Stopping them from ever raiding civilised parts again. Clearly they failed at that.”

“That wasn’t the whole of it,” continued Mark. “Fact is, several of my friends, including Michael and Rachel, have this ability to transmit their thoughts over a distance, to others with the same power. That’s all. I have a little of this power too, but in me it’s a lot weaker—it diminished after I was ill a few months ago, and I haven’t really recovered. Stephanie, here, well she never grew up with this ability, but in recent months she’s been developing it, in a limited way. My theory is, that spending one’s time in the company of a ‘thought-shaper’—as we call ourselves—causes one to begin to acquire the gift oneself. At any rate, Stephanie can transmit and receive a few thoughts—though not over any distance.”

“That’s very interesting,” put in Jack. “Did Michael ever read either of our thoughts? Did you read any of his, Adrian? Or mine?”

“Can’t say that I did,” replied Adrian. “Though I will say, there was always something strange about Michael. About how sometimes he seemed to know what I was about to say, before I said it. And then he was always so brilliant at school. Perhaps he was getting help from somewhere?”

“Perhaps he was,” admitted Mark, slyly. “Anyway, to continue: the people out to the west of here, Waknuk and surrounding areas, they got wind of it and they didn’t like it. They were afraid of us. So they pronounced us Deviations, and some of my friends had to flee for their lives. To the Fringes. I wasn’t caught up in it, nor were Michael and Rachel, simply because they didn’t know about the three of us. My other friends, those who weren’t captured, did manage to escape somehow, so I heard: Michael told me that they were rescued by some sort of aliens from another part of the world.

“But you can see what a risk we’re taking by telling you all this. We just have to trust you.”

“Oh you can trust us all right,” said Adrian. “Michael’s a good friend of ours, we’d never dream of betraying him, so why should we betray his friends? Besides, I’m not sure that what you’ve described is a ‘Deviation’. If ordinary people can pick up the habit, like Stephanie has, surely not! And don’t they say that the Old People had this ability to talk at a distance?”

“Well, all I can say is, we’re very grateful,” said Mark. “I wanted to get this off my chest, and I feel that if those thugs ever come your way again, it’d be better to know what it’s all about. So I think we’ll be wanting to set off first thing tomorrow. You couldn’t put us up, perhaps—”

But at this point Stephanie interrupted. “No, Mark, we can’t possibly impose on these good people in this way. Even if the trail has gone cold, wherever we are there’s danger. Surely we don’t want to put them to any more risk, not after what happened with Michael and Rachel? We’ll find a room at the inn.”

Mark saw the sense in this. So they took their leave of Jack and Adrian, after having enquired about inns in the town. They collected up their horses, and set out in search of the inn.


	36. Change of Plan

## Chapter 36

### Change of Plan

As they were riding slowly side-by-side through the network of streets, making their way towards the inn they’d been directed to, Stephanie glanced at Mark a few times. She seemed undecided whether to speak. Eventually she came out with:

“Mark—I don’t want to set out for Rigo. Not now, not until....”

Mark reined in his horse. “Good Heavens! Why ever not?” he exclaimed. “I thought we’d settled that: we were to go there right away.”

“I didn’t speak up earlier,” continued Stephanie, “but I really want to find out what happened to my parents. Please, Mark! Let me at least try...”

“But—but surely the trail that could lead to your parents is even colder than the trail that might lead to Rachel and Michael. Besides—” Mark stopped himself just in time, before tactlessly uttering the words _‘they might be dead’_. He hoped he hadn’t projected that thought in a way that Stephanie could pick up...

“I know. It was over eight years ago, that I was separated from them. I was just ten. I know we were brought here, to Kentak; I can remember tearfully saying goodbye to them as I was put into a coach bound for Rigo—all on my own. And my mother said, they’d probably be sent to prison. It was horrible....!”

Mark thought for a while. “Well, we could follow a possible lead. The inspector’s office here in Kentak may have records. I could call in there tomorrow and see what I can dig up. Not you: it would be dangerous for you: you might be recognised. But now let’s go on to the inn. We can decide about things tomorrow. Yes, we could stop there two nights if necessary.”

They found the first inn without difficulty, and handed their horses to the ostler for stabling. Going inside, Stephanie took charge and secured a double room for them for two nights. She gave Mark’s real name and her assumed name, with the same surname. Mark couldn’t help his eyes lighting up as he watched this: he recalled that Stephanie had said _‘We’ll find_ _ **a**_ _room’_ rather than _‘rooms’_ , back at the flat, but he’d thought it was a slip of the tongue.

Stephanie noted his bemused expression as they climbed the stairs to their bedroom. “Mark, I thought we’d agreed right at the start that we’d find it easier travelling if we pose as a married couple. But that doesn’t _mean_ anything between us—so no funny business!”

The room, when they reached it, was somewhat dingy but adequate, with a wash-stand and twin beds. Having deposited their bags, they returned down to the bar and ordered a quick meal. Then, being already quite tired, they decided to turn in at once. Once in the bedroom, Stephanie quickly stripped off her blouse, skirt and chemise and went to the washstand...

Mark had been feeling his bed and trying out the mattress for comfort; then he lifted his eyes and saw Stephanie across the room, naked to the waist. He did a double-take and gaped at her.

Stephanie noticed his confusion and giggled; she wrapped her arms across her breasts. “I was forgetting,” she laughed, “you guys from the ‘civilised’ parts aren’t used to seeing girls’ breasts. But it happens all the time, back at.....” She shuddered for a moment and couldn’t finish the sentence. “...back at—well, you know where. We didn’t have a nudity taboo. Well, most of the women back there don’t grow breasts anyway. Flat chested, just like the boys from the waist up. I suppose it’s the ones who were taken away as babies, and whatever they do to them.”

For an instant tears were starting from Stephanie’s eyes, but she collected herself and continued: “I was one of the lucky ones, I suppose. I was ‘treated’ as a ten-year-old, in Rigo; and the doctor said, I’d go through normal puberty—except for the monthly … blood. I wouldn’t have that—which she said would be a blessing. So my breasts grew as normal. They’re quite nice, aren’t they?” and she unwrapped her arms and wriggled her body.

“Indeed they are,” murmured Mark, somewhat hesitantly and blushing, finding it hard not to stare at her. “You know,” he continued, more expressively and boldly, “that I’ve long had the hots … well, quite a fancy for you, ever since I first met you. I thought you were a beauty. And I still do. I know you don’t want it to go further, but you _are_ teasing me a bit, aren’t you?”

Stephanie had meanwhile slipped a long nightgown over herself and removed her undergarments. “All right, I _am_ a bit of a tease, I suppose. You know I slept with Michael, don’t you? Just the once.”

“Er—Michael did sort of mention it. In words, not in thought-shapes. I wondered if he was having me on: men often boast about such things...”

“Poor Michael! Such a capable chap in all other ways, but so innocent when it comes to women. I suppose I did have a passing hot passion for him: I led him on. He’d never been with a girl before me: did you know that? But with you, I’m sure it’s different. You have, haven’t you? I can tell.”

“Just the one,” admitted Mark. “A farm hand's daughter, back at the farm where I grew up. She was very pretty: blonde hair in curls, not like yours,” and Mark reached out and briefly stroked Stephanie’s straight dark brown hair as he spoke. “I suppose she led me on: a lot of the farm girls were like that. We were together for a few weeks, then it sort of fizzled out. She was worried about having a baby, and her dad was getting suspicious: if he’d found out, he’d have horsewhipped her, for sure. But nothing bad happened. It was nice while it lasted. But I was also dead scared of the others—the others in my think-together group, I mean—finding out. I wasn’t supposed to go with a Norm. It was about the same time as we were having the trouble with Anne—you know about Anne, of course: Rachel’s sister—?”

“Yes, Rachel told me all about her. It must have been awful for her, finding the body like that—but she said that, although she’d never ‘get over it’, at least it wasn’t foremost in her mind any more. I hope that was true.”

“Well, the rest of us,” continued Mark, “were telling Anne that marrying a norm would be absolutely impossible. Out-of-the-question. Even I joined in saying that. Michael was passionate about it, and as for David... So I couldn’t admit to having a fling with a Norm, myself. Of course, there were never any thoughts of _marrying_ her. It was just a bit of fun...”

“Well, Michael obviously forgot his vows—at least when it comes to spending a night with a Norm. Except that I’m not exactly a Norm am I?” and she lifted her six-toed feet onto the bed. “You know, when I first met David, when we were kids playing together, I felt—hoped even—that as we grew older we might fall in love. I really liked David: my best friend. Of course I knew nothing about his—power—back then, and I knew nothing about Rosalind. I don’t think he realised his potential either—not at that young age.

“When I first met Rosalind, in those last days in....in those last days before I was rescued, I sensed that David was embarrassed. He didn’t really want me around; he was trying to shrug off the puppy-love we’d had. I knew at once that it would never have been anything with him. We were just kids.

“But with you? Please understand, Mark, I’m not rebuffing you for all time. I like you too. I’m just not ready to do this—to do what happened with Michael—not this time. And I’m now hoping for something more permanent. With a Norm,” she added, emphatically.

“Well, I’m not far off being a Norm myself, am I? My thought-shape powers are pretty weak at the moment, and I hardly ever use them. But yours are getting stronger.” _“Aren’t they?”_ he concluded, in a thought-shape.

“ _Yes,”_ replied Stephanie, also as a thought shape. “My goodness, I caught that! And I answered back!” she continued in words. “What’s happening to me?”

“You know perfectly well. You’ve been changing for months now. My point is, we’re drawing closer together all the time. I’m losing it, and you’re gaining it. And I already know about your feet; of course I’d never betray you. You can’t be certain of any other man. And Stephanie, I can’t help saying this, I love you. I wasn’t sure before, but I do now. So—”

“All right, I’ll consider the proposal made. Of marriage, I mean. But my answer is No. For now at least. Please understand. And no sneaking into my bed!” She reached across to Mark and gave him a quick peck on both cheeks; then she slipped into her bed.

Mark’s heart was pounding by now: he lay back on his bed and was silent for some time. “I understand,” he muttered, at last. “And thank you, thank you ever so much, Stephanie.” A few minutes later they were both sound asleep.

The next morning, after breakfast, Mark proposed that he should go alone to the Kentak inspector’s office, while Stephanie remained in their room. “Safer for you,” he said. So, after getting as much detail about Stephanie’s parents as she could recall, he set out for the inspector’s.

The office in Kentak was more imposing than the inspector’s offices he’d been used to back at home, and at Waknuk. There was a young woman seated at a reception desk, and she asked him his business. Then she consulted an appointments book, and told him he could see the inspector in about an hour’s time. With nothing else to do, Mark thought it best to return to the inn: he bought a few provisions on the way and also called in at the stables to check on the horses. They seemed to have been well looked after. Then he returned to Stephanie, and explained that it would take some time.

The hour being up, he presented himself at the inspector’s once more, and was shown into his office. The inspector was nothing like the commanding figure Mark was expecting; unlike the ones he’d encountered back at home and at Waknuk, this one was a slight, elderly man with grey hair and moustache, and a wrinkled face and kindly-looking eyes. Mark immediately felt at ease with him.

“So what can I do for you?” began the inspector. “I take it, this is not about simply reporting a Deviation: you could have arranged that with my secretary.”

“No. It’s like this.” Mark had been thinking up an elaborate lie all that morning, and he hoped it would sound convincing. “My uncle came to stay with my parents a few weeks ago: it had been many years since we’d seen him. When he arrived he asked about some old friends of his: a Mr and Mrs Wender. John and Martha. He said they used to live out west of Waknuk, but he hadn’t heard from them for years. My father was able to explain that the couple had been arrested for shielding a Deviational child, and he thought they’d been sent to Kentak for trial. Since my uncle’s rather infirm, I offered to come to Kentak to make enquiries on his behalf. So here I am.”

“I see,” said the inspector. “Yes, I remember the case quite well. Excuse me while I look for the file.” He searched some drawers for a while, then brought out a folder. “Ah, yes. It was their little daughter, name of Sophie. Age about ten, I believe. Born with six toes, poor thing. To be honest, between you and me, I’m more inclined to believe that such a person is near enough to the True Image to be accepted as one—but the Laws are very strict, especially here and out in the villages; less so in Rigo. So I had to put her through the procedure for Blasphemies, which I’m sure you know about. It turned out that she had to be sent on to Rigo, which was for the best: she’d have been better treated there than—”

“But what about the parents? John and Martha? That’s what my uncle really wants to find out.”

“Ah, I can’t help you there. Criminal cases are the responsibility of the Sheriff, not me: I only deal with Deviations and what to do with them. If the couple had been shielding the little girl, that’s a crime: they’d have been charged and stood trial. Sorry, I can’t help you any more: you could try asking at the Sheriff’s office.”

Mark thanked the inspector for his help and left the office, his opinion of inspectors on the whole quite a lot changed for the better! He saw that the day was advancing and it would be as well to return to the inn for lunch before trying the Sheriff’s. Back at the inn, Stephanie was happy enough with the progress Mark had made, and urged him to set out for the Sheriff’s straight after lunch.

At the Sheriff’s office, Mark was shown into a small office where he was greeted by a young man in a plain suit, not much older than Mark himself, who explained that he was one of the Sheriff’s officers.

“The Sheriff himself is going to be busy all this afternoon,” he said, “but hopefully I might be able to help you with your enquiry. So what can I do for you?”

Mark told the same tale that he had told the inspector.

“Hmmm. Eight years ago, you say? Name of ‘Wender’. Well, it’s obviously long before my time, but there’ll be a file somewhere. Excuse me while I go have a look.”

A few minutes later the officer was back. “Yes, I found the file, and I also popped in to ask the Sheriff. Yes, he remembers the case, apparently it was quite notorious at the time. But both of them pleaded guilty, so the case was over quite quickly. Five years.”

“Five years?” put in Mark. “You mean, five years’ imprisonment?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s the minimum for concealment of a Blasphemy. If they’d contested the case, they’d probably have got more.”

“Do you know where they were sent?”

“Well, it would have been separate prisons: a men’s prison for him, a women’s for her. I’ll have a look … yes here it is. Mrs Wender: five years at Kamach prison; Mr Wender, five years at Menichik prison. But they’ll both have been released by now, of course.”

“Where might they have gone after release?”

“I can’t help you there: your only recourse is to get in touch with the prisons themselves. But they’ll have had travel restrictions placed on them; they can’t have gone very far. Being husband and wife, I reckon they’d have been allowed to reunite, but that’s all.”

“Where are … Kamach and Menichik?” asked Mark, after glancing at the slip of paper the officer had passed him.

“Quite a long way off, if you’re thinking of going there. Kamach is the nearer: about fifty miles off, to the north of here. Menichik is another eighty miles or so beyond. I wouldn’t advise trying to make it to Menichik, not at this time of year: the roads’ll soon be blocked by snow. You could probably reach Kamach without trouble, if you set out soon.”

Mark wondered what Stephanie would have to say to the prospect of another journey, to the north this time. But she had been adamant that she wanted to go in search of her parents. Mark thanked the officer for his help and went back to the inn.

“You’ve been wonderful!” exclaimed Stephanie when he reported back to her. “I couldn’t have asked for better: you’re a perfect friend.” And she flung her arms around him and smothered him with kisses, some of them full on the mouth this time. “And of course we’ll set out for Kamach. It’s by far the best chance of finding them. I just hope the prisons have kept records as good as the Sheriff’s.”


	37. The Journey North

## Chapter 37

### The Journey North

They set out early the next morning. The last night had passed very much the same as the previous: despite Stephanie’s obvious admiration for Mark, she refused to let him share her bed. “I said No yesterday, and I still mean No. You understand?” Mark had acquiesced, reluctantly but not over-discouraged. He thought he saw a chink in the armour....!

The innkeeper had helpfully given them directions for finding the road to Kamach. It was warm at sunny at present, but they had been warned that the weather would soon turn much colder. This did not worry them: their horses had evidently benefited from the day’s rest and were eager for the journey.

Nothing of interest occurred during the day’s ride. For a while they urged their horses into a fast trot, but they made sure to rest them several times during the day. At first the road was well-made and passed through settled land with many farms. They took their lunch in the shelter of a large haystack—while the horses munched some of the hay for good measure. There were many streams for them to draw water. But when they had covered about fifteen miles, the landscape changed: the farms became more sparse and there were more forested areas interspersed with rocky and hilly stretches, and the road became more rough. Their pace inevitably slowed down, and daylight was now failing. They had not passed any farm or village where they might seek a bed for the night, so they decided to camp.

After tethering the horses where they could conveniently graze, they pitched their tent on a grassy spot sheltered between some large boulders. It seemed cosy enough: they were able to gather twigs and light a fire, and share a hot supper.

Just as they were clearing up after their meal, they heard a low, ominous growl nearby. The horses were startled, neighed, and reared up, dragging at their tethers, but luckily neither rope gave way. Mark immediately sprang up and attempted to calm the horses, with some difficulty. Then he looked around, and spotted two luminous eyes surveying them from the top of a boulder a short distance away.

“Don’t be alarmed, Stephanie,” he whispered, as he grabbed a bow and some arrows. “I think it’s a cougar. A big cat. They don’t usually attack people or large animals, but best to be careful.” Stephanie jumped up in some alarm and clung to Mark in her fright. Mark continued, “Best would be to climb on one of these boulders, shout and wave our arms, to frighten it off. Whatever you do, don’t run away, it might give chase. And I doubt if the bow will be effective.”

The cougar was coming closer now, and they could make out the dark sleek shape of its body in the increasing gloom. Stephanie did as Mark had bid her: they both climbed the boulder and waved their arms frantically and shouted. The cougar was very close now, and crouching, as if it were preparing to spring. They yelled even louder, and jumped up and down on the rock.

At last, after a minute’s stand-off, to their immense relief the cougar turned away from them with a snarl, and slunk off between the boulders. In a minute or two it had vanished into the gloom. The horses, too, seemed to have sensed that the danger was past: both of them calmed down when Stephanie and Mark comforted them.

“That was close!” muttered Mark. “We sometimes used to get cougars, back at the farm where I lived: occasionally one would come and take one of our calves. But I never heard of one attacking a person: they’re usually more frightened of us than we are of them. But you have to be careful. Of course, there’s always the risk that it might be a Deviant, with different instincts from a normal cougar. I’ve heard that some large animals mutate into man-eaters...”

“Oh, Mark! You must be awfully brave! But we oughtn’t to have camped here,” cried Stephanie. “Should we move on?”

“We could pack up and press on in the dark,” replied Mark, “but I’d advise not. I think we’ll be safe enough here. The horses will surely alert us if the cat returns. It’ll probably find some more suitable prey, like a deer; in which case it won’t be bothered with us at all.”

Stephanie was doubtful, but she was learning to trust Mark on these matters. He was clearly an experienced countryman, knowledgeable about the ways of these wild parts. So they crept into their tent and wrapped themselves in their blankets. Stephanie snuggled up to Mark and put her arms around him, and kissed him fervently. Mark kissed her back, and slipped an exploratory hand under her blouse. She immediately slapped it and he withdrew, in some confusion.

“Naughty!” hissed Stephanie. “Remember what I told you. I still haven’t made up my mind about you, so don’t be silly...” But he could sense that she was grinning...

They were soon asleep. Some time during the night they were awakened by a horse’s whinny: Mark at once crept out with the bow, though there was little chance of seeing a target to shoot at in the dark; the moon had set by now. But he could see no sign of the cougar, and the horses seemed to have calmed down. Probably a passing fox, he thought, and he was able to reassure Stephanie.

When they next woke it was just after dawn, and the horses were still grazing quite contentedly. They were able to wash at a nearby stream and made a hurried breakfast: then they packed and set off again. The road was getting steadily rougher, with more hills to climb, so their progress was slow. They had covered only about twelve miles by mid-afternoon, as they topped a high ridge with jagged rocks and the occasional pine along its crest. They gazed ahead and to their relief saw that the road descended into a broad valley with scattered houses, and there appeared to be a village a few miles ahead. They hastened forward and urged the horses into a trot again. It was just beginning to get dark as they entered the village.

They could see no sign of an inn, so they enquired at a house by the roadside. “No, sorry, dears, there’s no inn here,” said a short plump woman who answered the door. “But you could try one of the farms around here, they sometimes take travellers in, for a consideration. Try that one, over there,” she continued, pointing to a farm a short way back along the road, but stood some distance away from the road itself.

So they picked their way across the fields to the farm the woman had indicated, and tentatively knocked. The door was answered by an equally short and plump woman, with a good-natured face and bright auburn hair tied up in a bun, with two small children peeping shyly from behind her skirt. As soon as she learned their needs, she smiled.

“Yes, I can indeed put the two of you up, and we can take care of the horses. Here, Bob!” she shouted across the yard, and a lad came running and took charge of the horses. “And you can have supper with us too. How does five dollars sound to you?” she continued. Mark and Stephanie at once agreed, introduced themselves, and the woman ushered them into the house, telling them her name was Brenda, and her husband, who owned the farm, was Phil. She showed them to a warm and snug little room with a large bed, then told them to be sure to come to the kitchen in ten minutes, as supper was about to be served.

When they arrived at the kitchen, there were quite a number of people gathered at table. As well as Brenda and Phil and their children, there were three or four farm hands and their wives, and a couple of dairymaids. The meal, when it came, consisted of pork with greens and generous helpings of potatoes: the best meal Mark and Stephanie had enjoyed since they left Waknuk. And the conversation was lively, too: most of the talk was about farm matters, understandably. Although Stephanie, not being brought up a farm-girl, was a bit left behind by the talk, Mark joined in eagerly and entertained them with anecdotes about the happenings on his home farm, way out west and close to the Wild Country. He also told them about their close encounter with the cougar.

“Yes, we do get the big cats around here—not very often though. We do have to keep a watch on the livestock,” commented Phil, the farmer. “You did well to scare yours off though: I guess you’ve had practice, Mark?” Mark nodded.

“So you’d be making for Kentak, I reckon?” continued Phil.

“No,” put in Stephanie. “We’re going the other way. We’ve just **come** from Kentak: we’re heading to Kamach to the north of here. Visiting relatives there. I trust we’re still on the right road?”

“Yes you are, but it’s a rough road. Take you two more days, I reckon. Well, best of luck with your travels.”

When the meal was over, and the farm workers had departed, Mark and Stephanie expressed a desire to return to their room. They were just settling in, and Stephanie had flung herself contentedly down on the bed, when there came a tap on the door.

“Come in,” called Mark, automatically. _“Mark!”_ hissed Stephanie, in some alarm. Mark wheeled round. Stephanie was lying on the bed, _and had kicked off her shoes_. She was frozen for a few vital seconds, then she frantically tried to twist herself round and lower her legs on the far side of the bed.

But it was too late: the door was open and Brenda had stepped into the room, her arms full. “I just thought I’d bring you a couple extra blankets: it’s going to be a chilly—” She broke off: Mark had tried to divert her attention, but she’d noticed his uneasiness and glanced at Stephanie struggling on the bed. Her expression changed in an instant.

“But you’re... But you’re... you’re one of _them_? You’re a Bla—”

“Please don’t call me that,” interrupted Stephanie, sitting up. “Yes, I’m a Deviant. I’m not quite in the True Image, whatever that is. So what are you going to do?” Memories came floating back: a wet footprint on the flat stone by the river; Alan Ervin appearing uncalled-for; the fight between the two boys; all that happened after...

“But I thought you people weren’t _humans_. That you didn’t have _souls_ ,” protested Brenda, hesitantly, almost to herself. “You looked so human to me, I never thought...”

“I feel as much a human as you are. I don’t quite know what a soul is, but if there are such things, I’m quite sure I have one too.”

“Well I never!” exclaimed Brenda. “But how is it you weren’t sent to the Fringes, like the others? Even one of my babies...” and she paused, briefly wiping away a tear on her apron. “Were you hidden away all this time?”

“I **have** been to the F—; to that place,” put in Stephanie, unwilling to say the word. “I was there for seven years. It was a dreadful time. But I got away.”

“I’ve **seen** Fringes people,” said Brenda. “They came and raided the village here, but they were driven off. They were horrid people: dirty and ragged, with ugly faces, behaving almost like animals. But they didn’t look very Deviational.”

“No, they wouldn’t have. It’s nearly always something small: a tiny difference, like a toe. Just ugly—and aggressive.”

“But you’re not ugly. I think you’re quite a beauty. I was just saying to Phil, I think Mark’s a jolly lucky man.” Mark blushed, but did not deign to correct her assumption.

“I **was** ugly, during my time back there,” continued Stephanie. “But since I got out, I’ve been looking after myself better. So, what are you going to do?”

“No—it’s impossible. The Law says I must, but I **can’t** turn you in. You’re such a nice couple, I couldn’t have wished for better guests. If you’ve lived as a norm for so long, you can continue living as a norm, I reckon. It was only a ‘tiny difference’ with my baby too: just part of his left ear missing. And they took him away. How I cried and cried, for weeks!” Brenda could not suppress a few sobs even now, as she said this. “But you’ve seen my two girls: little dears aren’t they?—and they passed the test, they came after my son and softened the blow, a sort of ‘consolation prize’ I suppose.

“But don’t breathe a word of this, not to anyone else here. I shan’t even tell Phil. And be careful. One glimpse is enough.” She put the blankets on the bed and left, bidding them good-night.

They lay awake for a long while. Two narrow escapes in two nights!—how much longer would their luck hold? Mark was as contrite as anything; he’d been so careless, would Stephanie ever forgive him? She had stopped his protestations with a kiss as usual, then lay back, staring out of the window at the full moon, clearly thinking about something. At length she appeared decided. She reached down for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it up over her head.

“Yes, I **do** love you, Mark,” she whispered. “And yes, I will marry you. We won’t have a family, but we’ll have each other—for as long as we live. What more could we ask?” She wrapped herself around Mark.....

It was the best moment of Mark’s life. After their initial passion had been satisfied, they both lay back and fell asleep almost at once.


	38. One Lost, One Found

## Chapter 38

### One Lost, One Found

When the two of them set out after breakfast next morning, having pressed five dollars upon Brenda—which she seemed strangely reluctant to accept—they saw at once that Brenda’s warning had been correct: it had turned much colder and there were flurries of snow. They were thankful for their warm clothes. The horses seemed eager to break into a canter, so they hurried through the village without stopping, and continued at a good pace for several miles, until they were leaving the settled land behind them again, and making for another line of hills.

As they made their way more slowly along the narrow track that wound through the hills, Mark kept his bow strung and ready at his back; Stephanie too. They were anxious in case they encountered another cougar, although Mark said said they’d be less active during the daytime. But he was more worried about bears: he said they could be more dangerous than wild cats: he’d known one man back at his parents’ farm who’d been killed by a bear while out hunting.

They encountered numerous deer that ran across the road in front of them: ‘caribou’, Mark said they were, though Stephanie was unfamiliar with the word. The horses, luckily, seemed to be accustomed to deer: at any rate, they didn’t ‘spook’ at them as they had at the cougar. They didn’t encounter any animal, nor any plant, that looked Deviational: they must have been a long way from Wild Country, or the Fringes, by now. That was lucky, said Mark, having had plenty of experience of dangerous Mutants.

They also heard the sound of numerous rattlesnakes—also dangerous, as both Mark and Stephanie knew well. But luckily most of them didn’t venture onto the track: the one or two that did were easily dodged. Mark mentioned that it would be disastrous for them if one of the horses got bitten, but the horses seemed alert and well able to avoid the danger. Still, their lunch stop, atop some boulders, was an anxious time: they kept a good look-out as they ate. The snow had stopped by now but it was still cold and cheerless. They didn’t want to spend time lighting a fire, so they quickly re-mounted and pressed on.

The range of hills appeared to stretch on endlessly before them, and it was clear that they would have to spend another night in the open. There had been no sign of any settlement, not even a house, since the morning, and they were almost resigned to resorting to the tent once more—if they could find anywhere to pitch it amongst the rocks. And there seemed to be nowhere for the horses to graze: they had brought some hay and oats, and they hoped it would be enough. But, just as they had given up searching for a smooth place to camp, Stephanie’s sharp eyes had picked out what looked like a small hut, about half a mile to the left of the track.

“We can go and look, but we must not lose the track!” insisted Mark. “Help me build a cairn: it’s the only way we can mark it.” So they spent a good half hour piling up stones until they had made a cairn which they hoped was tall enough to be visible from half a mile off. Then they led the horses across the rough ground. The building, when they reached it in what was left of the daylight, turned out to be a deserted shepherd’s hut, a very primitive structure with a hole in the roof, a door hanging off its hinges, and rough damp boards across the floor. It appeared to have once had wheels, but they had long since rusted away. Mark tried the floor, and it seemed to be sound. There was also a grassy patch nearby where the horses could graze. So they spread out the groundsheet from the tent and laid out their blankets. It was cold, damp, and miserable, but they could think of nothing better.

There was a small pile of firewood behind the hut, which they were thankful for, and they soon had a blazing fire going. A hot, albeit frugal, supper did much to cheer them up. Having no inclination to stay up after supper, they retired into the hut, barricaded up the door as best they could, wrapped themselves in the blankets and indulged in another night of love....

Their sleep was interrupted during the night by a loud neigh, a scream almost, from one of the horses. In some alarm, Mark sprang up, threw on some clothes, pulled aside the barricade and rushed out of the hut, taking care to have a good look round first. The moon was not far off setting, but there was still light enough. There was no sign of any large animal apart from the horses, but one of them was clearly in distress: it was tugging at its tether and appeared to be unable to put one of its forelegs on the ground. Mark did his best to calm the animal, and carefully examined the injured leg. In the moonlight he could see that it had been severely bitten: he felt gently along the lower leg. To his dismay the bone was broken just above the fetlock.

Stephanie had meanwhile appeared at the door, wrapped in a blanket. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid,” called out Mark. “There’s nothing we can do. Can you get dressed and bring me the gun?”

Numb with shock, Stephanie did as she was asked. Mark took the gun, and told Stephanie to hold the other horse and try to keep it calm. Then he loaded and, sadly, aimed at the horse’s head.

“Please look away, Stephanie,” he said quietly, and Stephanie obeyed. There was a loud bang: the other horse was startled but Stephanie was able to keep hold of it and calm it down. Then she turned to Mark, who was sorrowfully removing the dead horse’s harness, and couldn’t avoid bursting into tears. It was the second time she had been witness to a wounded horse being put out of its distress, and the memory of the one Michael had had to shoot, after it had faithfully carried them almost all the way to Waknuk, was still fresh in her mind.

Mark, after assuring himself that the other horse was unharmed and quietened, ushered her back into the hut and they lay down. It was a long time before her sobs subsided, and even longer before her steady breathing told him that she was asleep. He remained awake a lot longer, going over in his mind how on earth they were going to manage with just one horse.

“Damn! Damn! Damn and double-damn!” he couldn’t help muttering. “Of all the rottenest luck!” He was still cursing when finally, he too nodded off.

It was broad daylight when they finally awoke. Neither of them felt in the mood for breakfast, so they just lit a small fire and heated cups of cocoa. Mark said he wanted to examine the dead horse in daylight, to try and find out what had happened. But he urged Stephanie not to accompany him.

“It’s all right now, Mark,” she insisted. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before, and I’ve got over it. Let me come and help.”

So they had a good look at the horse’s leg. “I’ve absolutely no idea what could have delivered such a dreadful bite,” muttered Mark. “Must have had terribly powerful jaws. A wolf, possibly: but if a wolf pack had turned up we’d surely have heard it, and there’d be more than one bite. And I don’t think a solitary wolf would go for a full-sized horse. Whatever it was, it’d run off before I got out of the hut. I’m beginning to think, a Mutant after all. Wouldn’t expect one this far from the Fringes, but you never know. And with Mutants, anything goes: some of them have the most immensely strong jaws.” He was recalling the monster that had attacked Petra’s pony, back in the woods around Waknuk: the event that had brought all Hell tumbling about them a few days later... “Whatever it was, we’re down to one horse, so we must manage as best we can. That man Phil, back at the farm, he said it was two day’s journey to Kamach. We’ve done one of them. I hope he was right.”

Stephanie had nothing to add to that. “Let’s get away from it; it’s horrible to see,” she remarked. “Perhaps it’s lucky that it was my horse; yours is the stronger one and should be able to carry us both—for a while.” She remembered how another horse had carried her and Michael many miles—but it had quickly tired. “But what can we take, and what must we leave behind?”

In the end they agreed to stow the tent and blankets in the hut, along with the dead horse’s saddle and bridle, their cooking gear, and some spare clothes. “We might be able to come back for them some time,” commented Mark. They took their remaining food, of course, and the gun and their bows and arrows. They carefully arranged their packs on Mark’s horse, and led it back to where their cairn marked the track. Mark mounted and Stephanie scrambled up behind and clung on tightly. They started off at a slow pace; the horse seemed able to carry both of them but wasn’t too happy about it.

The horse was visibly tiring by midday, so they stopped for a brief lunch, without incident; then they continued for three or four miles on foot, leading the horse. At last, to their relief, the high ground began to fall away and they could see a cluster of buildings in the valley a few miles ahead.

“With any luck, that’s Kamach,” said Mark, hopefully. The horse seemed to have recovered a bit, so they re-mounted and picked their way down the track to the lower ground. Daylight was failing fast when they reached the town, which was a bit smaller than Kentak. So, after having made enquiries and confirmed that this was indeed Kamach, they decided to make for an inn and have the horse tended to—it was almost dead-beat by now.

“And no mishaps tonight, with any luck,” chuckled Stephanie. “Don’t worry, Mark, I’m still upset about my horse, but I’m, getting over it. You know, it’s been an extraordinary journey, a right old mixture of good luck and bad luck. We got on all right with our big pussy-cat, and that woman Brenda came up trumps (we mustn’t make that mistake again!) —but then last night...! I still can’t believe we got here...”

“We’re here, and alive, and we’ll check out the prison tomorrow, if they’ll tell us. But I’m hopeful: the guys back in Kentak were very helpful and friendly and that.”

They found the inn without difficulty, and secured a room for the night and stabling for the horse. After a hearty meal—for they had eaten little during the day—they turned in to their beds. And nothing interrupted them during the night.

The next morning they asked the landlord where the prison was, and learned that it was outside the town, about two miles off. Mark proposed that he should go there alone, leaving Stephanie at the inn, as they had done before. Besides, it was not fair on the tired horse for either of them to ride it any more. Accordingly, Mark set out on foot after breakfast and, following the landlord’s directions, soon came to the prison. It was an imposing but grim-looking building, set in a barren rocky area like the terrain they had just crossed. After explaining his mission, Mark was admitted to the Governor’s office. The Governor was an imposing, square-jawed woman, with short fair hair, who looked as if she could have floored Mark with a single punch: he guessed that most of the prison staff would be like that. But she was cordial to Mark and agreed to help him out.

“Wender—eh? ‘Martha Wender’. Let me see,” and she thumbed through a large record-book. After turning many pages she looked up. “Yes, here she is. Discharged just under three years ago. We only record the first address a prisoner goes to after discharge, so if she’s moved about since then, you’ll have to enquire elsewhere. Yes, you’re lucky here, she settled at an address right here in Kamach.” And she wrote down the address on a slip of paper. “If she’s moved, it won’t be far away: she’ll still be under a travel restriction order.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Mark. “Very helpful. You don’t have any information about her husband, John Wender, by any chance?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. As you can see, this is a women-only prison, and we don’t have the discharge records for any other prison. Do you know which prison Mr Wender was sent to?”

“Yes I do—Menichik. They told me it’s a long way off.” The Governor nodded. “Oh well,” he continued, “I’ll have to start by seeking out Mrs Wender. Thanks awfully for your help.” And with that he took his leave and walked quickly back to the inn.

Stephanie was thrilled at his news. “Oh Mark, we must try the address straight away. I can’t bear to wait any longer.”

“She may not be there,” Mark warned. “You’ve got to be prepared for disappointment.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go. Right now!”

So they set out on foot, threading through the streets, some of them narrow, until they found themselves in front of a cottage with a garden in which some hens were clucking. Nervously, they knocked on the door.

It was opened by a thin, bent, rather elderly-looking lady with grey hair, wearing a black dress, leaning on a stick. Mark’s face fell when he saw her. He had never, of course, met Mrs Wender, but David had described her as a tall, slim, quite good-looking woman in her mid thirties. This could not be she! But Stephanie was looking at her intently.

“Mrs Wender?” she enquired, tentatively.

“Yes?”

“Mrs Martha Wender?”

“Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

“You don’t recognise me, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid.....”

“You don’t recognise me, perhaps... _Mother_?”

The lady gave a sudden start, and peered at Stephanie more carefully. “But you can’t be? That’s impossible! You couldn’t be! She was sent away... she couldn’t have come back could she... my own little Sophie? But you’re grown up.... it’s not possible...”

Stephanie made no reply: she simply kicked off one of her shoes and put her foot forward. Martha stared at it for a moment, lost for words.

“It _is_ you! My darling Sophie, come back to me! After all these years. No, I can’t believe it—”

And with that she sank into Mark’s arms in a dead faint.


	39. Reunion

## Chapter 39

### Reunion

When they had helped her back into the house, sat her in an armchair, and given her a glassful from a brandy bottle which Stephanie sought out and found in the kitchen, Martha soon recovered somewhat. She was still dazed and bemused: she kept on stroking Stephanie’s long, dark hair and feeling her arms and hands, just to assure herself that she was real.

“Yes, you _are_ Sophie,” she murmured at last. “I can feel it, now I look at you properly. But you’re hair’s straight. When we were—separated, you were all curls.”

“Perhaps my hair straightened as I grew older. But it’s the same hair. Same colour; same me.”

“You’ve grown up indeed. You’ve grown into a lovely young woman. How can that be, if you were sent to the Fringes?”

“I wasn’t pretty while I was in the—in _that_ place. The food was bad; the clothes were awful; I grew up very plain. But things have changed since I was brought out...”

“You were brought out...” mused Martha. She turned to Mark, who had until now remained silent, although he too had barely been able hold back his tears at the joyful reunion. Martha had already realised that he wasn’t David, Sophie’s childhood friend. He looked quite different.

“....and you are—?”

“I’m Mark,” replied Mark, laconically. He felt rather shy.

“Mark’s my fiancé,” broke in Stephanie. “Yes, we want to get married.”

“ _Married!_ So Mark here, brought you out of the Fringes, brought you all the way here, and now you want to marry him?”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t Mark. Not at first. I met him later. Another young man it was, who brought me from— _there_. But he’s already married. I didn’t fall for Mark straight away after we met: I wanted time. But now I’ve fully made up my mind: I **do** want to live with him. We’re in love,” she concluded, simply.

“But,” said Martha, “they must have done _it_ , you know what I mean—to you before you were sent to the Fringes.”

“Oh yes, they did it all right. But it hurt very little. Yes, I can’t have children. But I have been able to become a woman, and I can still have Mark. If he’ll still have me.”

Mark blushed once again.

Martha seemed still to be a bit dubious about the proposed marriage, but she changed the subject. “I suppose I’ve changed a lot, since you last saw me.”

“Well, yes, I suppose people do change in time. Was it awful, Mother, the prison and all?”

“Oh, the prison wasn’t too bad. They treated me kindly and I was set plenty of work to do. Mostly needlework. No, it was losing you, Sophie, and being separated from Johnnie, that was what broke my spirit. Yes, I know I’ve changed. I shouldn’t have grey hair and a bent back, not at my age. I’m only forty-seven....”

This prompted Stephanie to put the question that she’d been holding back on, although she had already guessed what the answer would be:

“Father....?”

“I think you’ve guessed, my dear. Your father’s no longer with us. Oh, he took it hard, poor Johnnie, losing you, losing me, all in a flash. And the prison they sent him to was so awful. They treat them cruelly in the men’s prisons: make them work eighteen hours a day, breaking rocks... Yes, when they released him he was sent back to me, but he was a broken man. At first he had some wild thoughts of resuming his work, curing pelts, but it was hopeless. He sank lower and lower day by day; towards the end he was so far gone that I had to do everything for him: dress him, feed him, bathe him—he could no longer speak. He was taken from us just over a year ago, and honestly, my dear Sophie, it was a blessing—a mercy. But if only he’d known that one day you might come back to us—”

Stephanie had already burst out weeping, and she and her mother clutched each other tightly as they shed tears together. Mark could only stand and watch them, not bearing to interrupt. Eventually Stephanie dried her eyes and composed herself.

“So what do you do, now, Mother? Are you quite on your own?”

“Yes, I’m alone here, Sophie. I get by. The rent’s not too much; I keep the chickens which you probably saw outside, and sell the eggs. I do a fair amount of needlework, and that brings in a bit of money too. I have something to thank the prison for: they taught me well!”

The conversation lapsed for a while. All three of them had a lot to think about. Finally Martha spoke again:

“That young man who brought you out of the Fringes. It wasn’t David, was it? But you said he was married...”

“No, it wasn’t David either. Though I have met him once, since—since _that_ time. No, it was a boy—well, a young man—named Michael. He was very kind to me...”

“Indeed he was. I’d really like to meet him, or at the very least to write to him. To thank him—though I have so much to thank him for, no amount of ‘thanks’ will be enough...”

“Well, that’s one of the problems,” put in Mark. “We don’t know where he is now. We were setting out in search of him, and his wife Rachel: they’d had to flee Waknuk, just like you did. But of course we had to come and find out about you, **first**.” Martha suppressed another sob as she heard this. “And I ought to tell you,” Mark continued, “there’s a connection between Michael, and Rachel, and David and his wife, and myself—”

“David’s married too?” interrupted Martha. “Well, I’m glad to hear that too. He was such a nice boy. He did all he could to help us.”

“I’m not quite sure whether they’ve got married yet, actually, but he was very close to his cousin, Rosalind; they were certainly engaged. I can’t contact them either. But this connection between us: I suppose you ought to know: we can communicate without each other by thought—”

“I _knew_ it!” burst out Martha. “David, when he was still just a little boy, he could read my thoughts before I even said them. I could, sort of, _sense_ that he was doing it, though we never spoke about it. So he could send thoughts to you, and you to him, and the others?”

“Yes, that’s about it. Over quite a distance too: several miles at least. Ste— I mean, Sophie couldn’t do it when she was a child: you’d surely have known it if she could—but now she’s picking up the ability. I think being with David, and Michael, and me, had some influence. But meanwhile, my ‘power’ has been diminishing over the months. I was ill for a while, and that must have affecting me. But Sophie and I can exchange simple thoughts, when we’re near enough.”

“There’s another thing I must tell you, Mother,” broke in Stephanie, prompted by Mark’s minor slip. “I’m not ‘Sophie’ any more, at least not outside this house. We all thought it’d be safer if I changed my name. I’m ‘Stephanie’ now.”

“ ‘Stephanie’.... ‘Stephanie’.” Martha repeated the name to herself several times. “Well, it’s a nice name anyway. Yes I know people often have to change their names. But to me you’ll always be ‘my darling Sophie’, whatever.”

“But please don’t call me ‘Sophie’ in front of anyone else! Surely it’s a small price to pay, for having me back again,” said Stephanie, prosaically.

“I’ll do my best,” replied Martha. There was another long pause. Martha glanced out of the window: the sun was already high in the sky and shining in.

“I really ought to get some lunch for us, but I’ll need to pop out and buy a bit more food—”

“Oh, _please_ , let us take you to lunch, at the inn,” broke in Stephanie. “We’re staying there anyway, and it’s our treat, really. But we can help you with the shopping later on, if you like.”

So Martha put on her warm coat and hat, but decided to leave behind her walking-stick. “I don’t really need it,” she remarked, “as long as I have one of you to lean against if I stumble. And please don’t sprain your ankle again, Sophie!” she chuckled, remembering how it had all begun. The sprained ankle that had brought David into their lives...

They set out at a slow pace and eventually arrived at the inn, where they were soon sat down to a hearty meal. Martha seemed very much recovered since their first meeting.

“You must, of course, stay with me—at least until you get married,” she said. “I have a spare room—or two at a pinch, if you’d prefer it that way.”

“One will be fine,” said Stephanie, blushing. Her mother smiled knowingly but said nothing. “But—” Stephanie broke off, uncertain what to say next.

“But what, dear?”

Stephanie quickly collected herself. “Oh, it’s just that we also have a horse. It’s stabled here at the inn at present. Can you take it in?”

“ _One_ horse?” queried Martha. “Do you have a trap or cart, too?”

“No, no cart. We started out on horseback, on a horse each, but we lost one...”

“Broke its leg,” explained Mark. “It was in terrible pain, I had to shoot it. Very sad, I hated to do it. We had to come the rest of the way, both riding the one horse.”

“Well, I’ve no stable, but there’s a rickety old shed behind the house. Perhaps it can be made secure enough?”

“I’ll have a good look at it when we get back,” said Mark. He was not as skilled a carpenter as Michael was, he knew, but years of living on the farm had given him a good grounding in practical work. “I’ll certainly give it a try, Mrs Wender.”

“Oh, please call me ‘Martha’, Mark! Johnnie used to call me ‘Martie’, but I’d prefer ‘Martha’.”

“All right ... Martha.”


	40. More Problems

## Chapter 40

### More Problems

When the three of them returned to Martha’s house, Mark immediately set to work on the ramshackle old shed, replacing a few rotten boards and fashioning a double-hung stable door. By evening he had achieved a passable result. It was rather small for a stable, but it would serve, especially since the horse could spend a lot of time out-of-doors. Martha’s house was at the edge of the town, and there was a grassy area behind the back yard where it could graze and take exercise.

Stephanie and Mark installed themselves in the spare bedroom and agreed to stay with Martha for a little while: it seemed cruel to be reunited with her and then immediately depart. And Martha, having been utterly won over by Mark, was eager for the wedding to take place as soon as maybe. But both Mark and Stephanie were uneasy.

“I still feel we ought to find out more about Michael and Rachel,” said Mark quietly to Stephanie, as they lay in bed a few days later. “Where they are; if they’re all right. We can’t just abandon them.”

“I know how you feel, Mark. Even if you’re mine in the first place,” and she gave him a passionate kiss, “you still belong to them. It was so good of you to help me find Mother: I love you for it. Of course I’ll help you find Michael and Rachel. But there’s another problem even more pressing. Surely you’ve considered it.”

“What is that, my love?”

“Don’t you see? Mother’s on some sort of restraining order. As an ex-convict, she can’t travel freely without a permit from the authorities. You told me so yourself: that’s exactly what you were told at the prison. So wherever we go, we’d have to leave her. We can’t take her with us.

“And what about me? If word comes out that a young woman has come to stay at Mother’s house—whether married or not—people, neighbours perhaps, will get suspicious. Maybe the local Sheriff, or the inspector, will come snooping around. If he or anyone else anyone finds out who I am (and who else could I be?) I’m done for. They only need to force me to reveal my feet. And that puts you in danger, too.”

“Well, damn me! Yes I’ve been quite an idiot , Stephanie! Of course I should have thought of this,” said Mark, humbly. He lay back thinking for a long while, then he continued, “But you too should have told me earlier.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Mark. And I’m not blaming myself either. It was just so overwhelming, finding Mother so quickly against all our expectations, I simply forgot everything else. But how risky is it, us staying here with Mother?”

“Well, seeing as this is now her home, she’ll have friends here. They’ll know she lives alone, and she’s probably told them she has no children; no relatives, probably. So if a strange couple suddenly turn up—one of us bearing a strong resemblance to her (yes, Stephanie, I _can_ see the likeness between you), maybe people’ll start wondering...”

Mark lay back and thought for a long time.

“I don’t see any alternative—than for us to press on to Rigo, and leave your mother behind,” he began, tentatively. “But I’d hate to do that, just as much as you would hate it. I can see how much she’s rallied since we arrived—since you and she were reunited. You can’t just tear yourselves apart again! Maybe we can come up with a different plan?”

“Just the formality of us getting married is a problem, too,” replied Stephanie. “I’m on forged papers, in your name—just as if we were already married. We can’t present ourselves at the church with those! And if Mother attends, they’ll wonder just _whose_ wedding it is she’s attending...”

“We’ve really landed ourselves in it now, my dear! Let’s talk about it in the morning—and we must discuss things with Martha—your mother, too. As for now, my love...” and he wrapped his arms around Stephanie, who pressed herself against him and wound her legs around him....

In the morning, over breakfast, they put their dilemma to Martha. She was surprisingly calm about the whole matter: she’d evidently been thinking along the same lines herself.

“Oh, if only I still had Johnnie with me—Johnnie as he was before...” she cried, and fresh tears glistened on her face. After a moment she wiped her eyes and continued, “He was so clever at thinking up escape plans: all through Sophie’s life we had to be prepared to use one: prepared to bolt—forged papers and all—and he really thought we could get away with it, when Sophie was—when **it** happened.”

“What really **did** happen, when... when that happened?” asked Mark. “I’ve only heard the bare outlines from Steph—from Sophie here, and from David at the time it happened. If it’s not too upsetting for you, of course...”

“I don’t mind telling the story—not now I’ve got Sophie back. After all, Sophie doesn’t know all the details either. You both need to know. Well, the beginning you already know: someone saw Sophie’s footprint and denounced her to the inspector. David ran to warn us, and we put our escape plan into action: Johnnie was _sure_ it’d work. David wanted to come with us, but we knew at once that that would be a terrible mistake, there’s be hue and cry all over Labrador. So we asked him to stay the night in our house, to give us a head start. I’ve every reason to think he obeyed us: he was such a good lad!”

“Yes he did,” put in Mark. “Stop the night in your house, I mean. He told us.”

“Well, we had planned a small subterfuge. We didn’t even tell Sophie about it, in case she told David. Sorry, Sophie! Not that we expected David to betray us, of course, but we rather expected Strorm to force a confession out of him anyway. So we set off in a south-westerly direction, as if we were heading for the Fringes. Of course it was never our plan to go there! But as soon as we were out of sight of the cottage, we turned north-west, choosing a place to turn off where we’d not leave any tracks either way. A dried-up river bed. Johnnie had worked this all out, you see: we hoped in that way to shake off any pursuit for a while.

“Our luck held for about a day, but it didn’t last. We’d managed nearly twenty miles, we thought we were safe, but as we were crossing a field a farm hand shouted to us that we were trespassing. And he had a gun. So we stopped. Then he told us that he was on patrol watching out for infiltrators from the Fringes: they’d had several it seems. So, since we were strangers, he asked to see our tags, including Sophie’s forged one.

“We hoped we’d still get away with it, but alas! the name ‘Wender’ had somehow reached that district, so we were done for. The rest you know.

“I’m still not sure how they got our name so quickly, back at Waknuk. Perhaps David blurted it out to his father?”

“David told us about the violent flogging he got from his father,” said Mark. “Not the first time it’d happened. Laid him up for two days. That man Joseph Strorm must’ve been a brute: glad I never met him.”

“So David might have blurted out our name?” continued Martha. “Yes it’s possible, but I don’t think that of him. I liked him too much, and trusted him better than that. I’m more inclined to think, they set a dog on David’s scent and tracked him back to our cottage. After that our name would soon have come out! And the Waknuk inspector must have sent out messengers on horse in all directions ... just bad luck, terrible bad luck...” Her eyes were full of tears once more.

They were all silent for quite a long time. Eventually Mark said, as gently as he could, “That’s very good of you, very brave of you, Mrs W—Martha, to tell us what happened. But it doesn’t get us any nearer finding a plan on how to deal with things now...”

“Mark, could you pretend to be a distant relative of Mother’s—and I could be your wife?” queried Stephanie.

“No good,” put in Martha. “They’ll have gone through mine, and John’s, family connections. Seeing if there are any other Mutants hidden away. They’ll have been very thorough. You couldn’t pass yourself off as any relative of mine, not without arousing suspicion.”

“OK, then, here’s my idea,” said Mark, resolutely. “We use the same cover story I put about in Kentak—and it seems to have worked. I’ve got an uncle, a rather infirm man, who used to be a friend of John’s—of your husband. They used to sometimes go out hunting together. You said that John was a hunter, didn’t you?”

“Yes, he was very keen on that. Yes, he could well have met up with friends whom I didn’t get to meet, whom I didn’t even know about. Common enough within the hunting fraternity. And friends who wouldn’t have surfaced in the inspector’s enquiries—why should they?”

“So, this uncle,” continued Mark, “who until recently lived some distance away, came to stay with my parents after his wife died, and enquired after John. And he learned that you and he had been sent to prison. Naturally he’d want to follow this up, but since he was too unwell to pursue the matter, I volunteered to do it on his behalf. And here I am. Of course my uncle thinks John is still alive. And he himself may not last long.

“Of course, I don’t _really_ have an uncle. This is all made up.

“The next question being: can you get a travel permit to go outside the limits you’re supposed to stick to? How far is the limit, in any case?”

“Ten miles,” said Martha. “I see what you’re getting at. Yes, I could probably get a permit from the Sheriff, call it ‘compassionate’ grounds. That I’ve got to visit your ‘uncle’ and break the news to him in person. So I’ll accompany you back to your parents’ house...”

“Yes, except that I propose making first for Kentak—and we’ll go by the mail coach. We’ve had enough, both of us, of trying to do the journey on horseback!”

“And what about me?” asked Stephanie. “Do I come with you?”

“Too risky,” said Mark. “The safest thing is for you and Martha to travel apart. My idea is that you also go to Kentak, also by coach, but by an earlier coach. When you get to Kentak, make for Adrian and Jack’s place and explain things to them. Martha, do you know how often the mail coach to Kentak leaves?”

“I’ve no idea, but I do know there’s a coach from here going all the way to Rigo, and that leaves once a week. That’s a long trip!—and quite expensive too. If there’s a Kentak coach, it will probably be about the same interval.”

“I’ll go and enquire today—straight away—and if there’s a coach leaving soon, I’ll book my place on it,” said Stephanie. “I suppose I can do that at the inn.” Martha nodded. Breakfast being finished, Stephanie gathered up her coat and set out, promising not to be long.

She was as good as her word. In less than an hour she was back at the house. But one glance at her face showed the others that it wasn’t going to be that simple.

“There’s no direct coach from here to Kentak, they told me. The road is too rough and narrow for a coach to get through. But we knew that already: we came that way.”

“I can well believe that,” said Mark. “And no way am I going to want us to follow that road again on horseback—not what with cougars about, plus creatures that can bite a horse’s leg off—”

“Can do _what_?” exclaimed Martha, horrified.

“Well, I said one of our horses had broken a leg, didn’t I? I didn’t tell the whole story. Truth is, it was attacked by some unknown animal during the night, something with immensely strong jaws, bit the poor horse’s leg and broke the bone. I’ve no idea what it could be—not even a cougar would do that.”

“Mutant dog, perhaps,” suggested Martha. “Sometimes a pet bitch gives birth to mutant pups, and the owner hides them till they’re weaned, then lets them go, rather than destroy them. We’ve had a few cases around here—and the inspector gets furious when he hears about it. The dogs go feral and savage, and attack livestock. Even people. Farmers are constantly having to shoot them. Danger to everyone—”

“Can we get back to our journey plans?” interrupted Stephanie, pleadingly. “Well, the only way to get to Kentak is to board the stage-coach for Rigo, get off at a place called Ashapi and then get another coach back from there to Kentak. It’s a two day journey from here to Ashapi, then another day to Kentak. But the connections don’t work very well.

“The first Kentak coach leaves in two days’ time: I’ve booked a seat on it. Then I have to wait in Ashapi two days for the next coach to Kentak. I just hope I can find a room at the inn there.”

“You’re very brave, my dear, about wanting to go all that way on your own,” burst out Martha. “I’ll be worrying about you all the time.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. Remember, I’ve done the whole journey from Kentak to Rigo by stage-coach, when I was a little girl, and I got through that all right.”

“But now you’re a grown-up girl. Is it going to be safe—on your own?”

“I spent seven years in the F—; in that place I was sent to, Mother. I can look after myself. Mark, you’re all right about my doing this, aren’t you?” Mark nodded, a bit doubtfully. “Then that’s settled. I’m going.”


	41. Another Journey

## Chapter 41

### Another Journey

The rest of that day, and the next day, were spent in preparations for the separate departures, first of Stephanie, then of Mark and Martha—if Martha could secure her travel permit. To that end, Martha insisted on going to the Sheriff’s office alone: “I know him, slightly, I think I can persuade him,” she said. “I’ll use Mark’s story—it’ll not be the first time I’ve had to spin a lie! In fact, I got rather good at it, all the time we were bringing up Sophie...”

Later that day she returned from the Sheriff triumphant, clutching a piece of paper. “I’ve got it!” she proclaimed. “I just told him, there’s an old friend of John’s, living near Kentak, took very poorly; he doesn’t even know that John died. I must go and see him before he too passes away, break the news to him perhaps if he can bear it... Anyway the Sheriff’s given me a two-month permit, told me to be sure to be back before it runs out—lots of folk depend on my needlework! He gave me a wink as he said that. I’m now going to have to go the rounds and disappoint them. Oh, well.”

“Excellent!” said Mark. “That means you and I can make for Kentak next week, same route as you, Stephanie. So we shan’t be apart for too long. You’ll leave a message with Jack and Adrian when you get there, yes? Meanwhile there’s work to be done. I’ll have to sell the horse somehow...”

“Yes, and I’ve got to sell the chickens and shut up the house. And tell the landlord I’ll be away two months. He won’t like that, he’ll probably want to find another tenant. But I’ll take things as they come—” Martha had become quite bubbly in her enthusiasm for these adventurous plans: she was fussing herself about tidying up the house; she had long since cast away her walking stick and was able to stand almost fully erect now: a marked contrast to the bent, frail-looking creature who had first answered the door to Stephanie and Mark. Having a long-lost child restored to her had worked wonders...

So, two days later, Stephanie bid goodbye to Mark and her mother, and set out at dawn with a small bag containing a few of her belongings. She found the stage-coach preparing to depart and boarded it warily. As she took her seat memories came flooding back of that other stage-coach journey, all those years ago, all alone as a small child being sent to Rigo. It was a terrifying ordeal in itself. She’d been forced to travel barefoot, presumably to make it difficult for her to abscond. But how could she have run off anyway, in strange country, her parents arrested, and with nowhere to go? There had been three other passengers in the coach; one glance at her bare feet told them all and they had each crossed themselves and edged as far away from her on the seat as they could. No-one had spoken to her throughout the entire journey. No-one had so far as looked at her during the journey. And at stop-overs she’d been denied a bed, made to sleep as best she could in the barn or the stables.

But it was going to be different now! She was travelling as a respectable woman, properly dressed, free from any suspicion. Her main worry now was of being molested by strange men on the journey: it had happened often enough in the Fringes, and she’d been far less attractive back then! But she felt confident she could cope with any unwanted attention...

Three other passengers boarded the coach, and to her relief they were an elderly couple and a somewhat younger woman travelling alone, like her. All three greeted her cordially, as the coachman whipped up the horses and they were off. The younger woman was sitting next to Stephanie, and they fell into conversation as the coach bumped its way along. The woman explained that she was a widow, she was travelling all the way to Rigo to stay with her sister and her family. She asked about Stephanie’s journey.

“I’m only going as far as Ashapi; I get off there and wait for the coach to Kentak. And my fiancé will be following me in a week’s time; he’s got some work to finish back in Menichik, while I look over the apartment we’ll be moving into.”

“So—you’re engaged? Congratulations! I suppose you’ll be getting married in Kentak?”

“Yes, that’s the plan.”

“Well, all I can say is, your fiancé is a very lucky man! And I’m sure you’ll be blessed with lots of children.” Stephanie felt a pang of grief as she heard these words, but she managed to conceal her emotions and force a smile. She was used to it by now. And the woman appeared not to have noticed anything amiss as she continued, “and of course if you have a girl, she’ll be sure to be as pretty as you are, my dear.

“But do take care when you stop off in Ashapi. It’s not the nicest of places to stay...”

Stephanie assured her that she was well able to look after herself, and the conversation continued on more general lines: the weather, the prospects for next year’s harvest, the deviation rates, and so on. The elderly couple joined in for a while. Stephanie had brought along some food and was able to buy more when the coach stopped to change horses. She shared some with her companions. The coach was to continue journeying all night, but Stephanie had, like the others, come prepared with a blanket and attempted to doze off in her seat as night fell. But she found it difficult to sleep; the weather was still cold and she felt a chill despite her blanket.

At long last, as the afternoon of the following day was drawing to a close, they arrived at Ashapi, and Stephanie was able to alight, cold and stiff and weary from the uncomfortable journey, and wondering how bearable the next leg, to Kentak, would be. But her first task was to make sure of a room at the inn. As she paused for a moment at the doorway, she became aware of someone’s eyes fixed upon her. Turning her head slightly, she could see out of the corner of her eye that it was the ostler, taking charge of the horses but gazing in her direction, leering at her. Oh well, thought Stephanie, I was warned; I’ll just have to take care...

The innkeeper was less helpful than she’d hoped. He explained apologetically that he had only one room available, a tiny attic room on the top floor. But Stephanie at once accepted: she was thankful to get any sort of room there, rather than have to ask around the local farms. The innkeeper promised to have a fire lit and the bed made up. And she could take dinner at the inn, if she wished.

Stephanie was coming to the end of an adequate, but not very appetising meal in the saloon, when the thing she’d been afraid of happened. She spotted the same ostler sidling across the floor towards her, and without a by-your-leave he planted himself in the seat next to her.

“Feeling lonely, little lady?” he began.

“Not at all, thanks,” replied Stephanie, somewhat brusquely and trying not to make eye contact. But the young man continued:

“Pretty young girl like you, oughtn’t to be on your own, now, should you?”

“I’m **not** alone. I’m meeting my husband shortly.”

“Your husband? I didn’t see him around; certainly he didn’t get off the coach with you.”

Stephanie floundered a bit. “Oh—no, he’s arriving on the next coach. But he’ll be here soon.”

“Ha! There isn’t another coach for two days. So you **are** on your own, my dear...” and he put a hand on her knee.

Stephanie brushed his hand away and summoned up all the fury she could muster. “Look here, buster. I’m tired, I’ll be going to my room as soon as I’ve finished dinner; I don’t want any company, and if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be with **you**...”

“So you don’t like me, huh? We’ll see about that...” and with that the ostler stood up, gave her an evil wink and walked off towards the bar.

Stephanie was in a fit of terror. How could she get away from this brute? At the moment his back was towards her; she quickly slid her plate away, slipped out of her seat and softly edged towards the door. So far he didn’t seem to have noticed her, luckily. Once out of the saloon, she bolted upstairs to her room as fast as she could, and flung open the door. As she ran in she almost bumped into the landlady who was coming out laden with sheets and blankets.

“Just made up your room, my dear, and lit a fire for you. Nice and cosy, and I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”

“Thanks,” said Stephanie hurriedly, and closed the door as soon as the landlady was outside. As she fumbled with the lock, she could hear the landlady’s footsteps retreating, but a few seconds later what she had feared: the sound of heavy hobnailed boots on the bare boards, coming _towards_ her room. She wrestled with the key but it wouldn’t turn in the lock, so she tried the bolt. That too was very stiff and before she could slide it the door was wrenched open.

“I told you, you need company,” sneered the ostler, pushing his way in. “Now just behave yourself like a nice girl oughta...”

“ _Get out_!” screamed Stephanie. She hoped her cries would attract other people in the inn, but the ostler clamped a hand over her mouth. “So you still don’t like me, baby? You oughta learn to like folks what likes you...”

There was only one thing Stephanie could resort to. She remembered how she’d attracted attention back in the Fringes: attention from the few men who _could_ take advantage of her. Yes they had gravitated towards her, she being one of the few young women with noticeable breasts. Yes, she’d had to defend herself a few times. That was until Gordon took charge of her, and made it clear around the camp that any other man who tried it on would face his wrath. Things had been better then...

She hitched up her skirts and brought her knee up with all the force she could muster. It caught the ostler squarely in the groin. He released his grip on her and doubled up, gasping in agony. Stephanie took advantage of the moment to shove him out of the door, which she slammed and again wrestled with the bolt...

“You filthy little bitch!” she heard a wheezing voice through the door. “I’ll get even with you, just you see!” But he made no attempt to re-enter, and a moment later Stephanie could hear him shuffling off.

She made more strenuous efforts to slide the bolt. Then she thought of smearing it with a bit of soap from her wash-bag, and at last succeeded in sliding it part of the way across. Now I’m safe, she thought to herself. Or am I? She hurried to get into bed, undressing and donning a warm nightgown and a pair of thick woollen stockings which she’d had the foresight to bring along with her. No mistakes this time!

She was awakened by a violent rattling on her door. In a panic, she sat up in bed and looked around for something she could use as a weapon. She’d come ill-prepared: not even a knife. She thought of the poker by the hearth: the fire had almost died out but she could still make out a few things in the gloom. Would she be able to wield the poker if she had time to grab it? But the best she could hope for was that the bolt would hold...

It didn’t. In a few seconds the door sprang open, and there he was, holding a candle which he placed on a table, out of her reach, then he slapped her face and tugged at the blankets, pulling them right off the bed.

“Now I’ll teach you proper, you ugly vicious little whore, I’ll learn you what you’ll get for doing me in like that! So no more funny business, geddit?”

As Stephanie shrank back from him, her thoughts raced through her head like a whirlwind. She wouldn’t be able to knee him again, he’d be on his guard. He had only to rip off one of her stockings, and she was as good as a dead woman. Back to the Fringes, or prison, or worse! Could rape be any worse than that?

She made up her mind in a flash. Reaching down, she pulled the hem of her nightgown up, right up, over her breasts, over her head. She lay back on the bed and obligingly parted her legs...

To her immense relief he didn’t undress. He merely unfastened his breeches and came down upon her. Close up, he smelt abominable, a mixture of beer and stable-manure; his hair was untidy and greasy, he had a day’s stubble on his chin, he was dirty and ugly with coarse, dirty clothing. As he came on to her, she tried to marshal her thoughts on anything but this, anything but _him_. She turned her face away from him. She thought of her time in the Fringes, but no, that wouldn’t do. Then she thought of her first meeting with David, that time they’d been sliding down the bank together, that time she’d hurt her foot. Oh how kind he’d been to her—her first real friend! Joyful times! If only he were back with her now! Yes she had loved him with abandon: it may have been only puppy-love, but she’d loved him all the same. And gone on loving him, all through her other liaisons, even Michael—until she met Mark. Mark was a wonderful young man, the best husband she could have hoped for, she now shared her love between him and David, but mostly Mark. Mark must never know about this—horror. No, never! It’s not happening, it never _will_ have happened....

At last the ostler’s workout came to an end. He grunted, rolled off her and slid to the floor, exhausted. But not for long; he soon got up, re-fastened his clothing, grabbed the candle and went out, closing the door behind him. As soon as his footsteps had died down, Stephanie roused herself. She went to the wash-stand and sponged herself down as best she could with soap and cold water; then she dried herself, put her nightgown back on and was back in bed, sobbing violently. Rape. This was her first rape. She had been molested often enough in the Fringes, but it had never amounted to rape. Gordon had seen to that, and Gordon had been a kind man—to her.

But **was** this rape? That vile creature would certainly deny it. He’d say it was consensual—that she’d _invited_ him to her room even. And she had stripped naked in front of him. Naked apart from the stockings. The stockings were intact. At least something to be thankful for! If she denounced him, she’d almost certainly have to be examined by a doctor. The secret would surely come out! As her thoughts drifted around all these matters, her sobbing eased a little, and in a while she dropped off to sleep.


	42. Kentak again

## Chapter 42

### Kentak again

Stephanie was riding her pony through the dark forest—so dark that she could barely see the tree trunks around her. And the trees seemed to be closing in on her, barring her way. She was all alone and lost, and the trees were getting ever closer. Suddenly a gap appeared between two trees, and out of it sprang a hideous monster, all fangs and razor-sharp claws, with matted yellow hair which glowed in the dark. It pounced on her, but she managed to wriggle free, grabbed an overhanging branch, and swung herself up into a tree. The beast turned its attention to the pony, fell on it and ripped its body apart. Then it reached up into the tree. Stephanie (or was she Sophie) screamed and screamed...

She was in her cave, in the Fringes. Men were shouting all around in the clearing below. Some of them Fringes men, some of them strangers on horseback. They were shooting arrows at each other and firing guns. Many men fell. Her cooking fire began to smoke, the smoke filled the cave, her eyes stung, so she edged towards the entrance so that she could breathe. But she was still choking. A monstrous silver object appeared in the sky above. As she gazed up at it, she realised she was bound with cords. Bound all over her body with cords which were tightening. Some tightened round her neck. All the men were dead. She could no longer breathe, or scream....

Stephanie woke up, sweating and disoriented. It took her some minutes to get her bearings, to realise that she was in her bed, in the inn, and sunlight was streaming in. That she’d been having nightmares. Then the remembrance of the horrible experience of the night before fell upon her. She shuddered. That was a nightmare that had really happened. Would she be able to forget that, as easily as one forgets dreams?

She shook herself and stumbled out of bed. The sun was fairly high: she realised that she’d overslept; would they still be serving breakfast? She hurriedly splashed some water on herself: the side of her face stung when she touched it. She remembered the ostler slapping her. There was no mirror in her room, but she was able to see her reflection in one of the windows. Yes, there was a small bruise there, but there didn’t seem to be any blood showing. Hurriedly she dressed herself, and wrapped her face in a scarf as best she could, hoping to conceal the bruise. Then she ran downstairs to the saloon.

The landlady was still there, clearing tables. She smiled when Stephanie appeared. “Had a good sleep, my dear? Don’t worry, I’ve kept a bit of breakfast for you.” And within a minute a plate of bacon, eggs, and tomatoes was placed before her. Stephanie realised that she was hungry, and despite her traumas she tucked in.

“One thing I wanted to ask you, Mrs—er...” she said between mouthfuls. “The door of my room doesn’t seem to lock properly. And the bolt’s broken. Could someone fix it?”

“I’ll ask my husband.” She gave a call and the innkeeper appeared. Stephanie explained her problem once again. “Hmmm.... you’d better finish your breakfast, then I’ll come up with you and have a look,” he said.

In a few minutes they were climbing the stairs, the innkeeper carrying a box of tools. He examined the door. “Hmmm... the bolt’s all right but the keep-saddle’s been wrenched right out of the wood. I wonder how that could have happened? My wife was up here last night, getting the room ready for you; it was quite all right then. But don’t worry, I’ll fix it for you. You’re staying one more night, aren’t you?” Stephanie nodded.

Then he turned his attention to the lock. He tried turning the key without success, and looked puzzled. Removing the key, he took out another from his pocket, tried it in the lock, and it turned smoothly. He examined the key he’d taken out more closely.

“Strange! This doesn’t look like one of our room keys at all. Unless I’m very much mistaken, I’d say it was one of the keys to the stables. How could it have got here? But don’t worry, I’ll get a spare key from the box for you—and I’ll make sure it’s the right key. At least you’ll be sleeping tight tonight...” And with a smile, the innkeeper left Stephanie to herself.

Stephanie was determined not to spend a moment longer than necessary in this horrible inn, despite the good-natured friendliness of the landlord and landlady. That beast of an ostler must be around somewhere; she could run across him at any time. Best to get far away from the inn and stay away until the evening. Then she would probably have to face out the ostler once again. Though, having satisfied his lust for her, he may no longer be interested...

Accordingly, she prevailed upon the landlady to provide her with a packed lunch, put on her boots and coat, and set out. She followed the road for a mile or two, then she spotted a trail leading off to the south, towards a wooded area. She took that trail and was soon among trees, but these trees were well spaced out and there were low bushes either side of the path. It was a pleasant walk: although still very cold, the weather was fine and sunny, and many birds were flying among the trees. Once she started in alarm as she heard a rustling in the bushes, but it was only a fox crossing the path, which cast a glance at her and then disappeared into the bushes opposite. Within about an hour or two the woods cleared and she came to a small lake with geese swimming around in it.

She sat herself down on a flat sun-warmed rock by the lakeside, cupped her face in her hands and watched the geese. Presently some ducks appeared as well, and she laughed as she watched a handsome drake, resplendent in his breeding plumage, trying to chase down several females at once, none of them showing any interest in him. Then she remembered last night; she checked herself, buried her face in her hands, and wept for a while.

The rock was getting quite warm by midday, so she took off her coat, spread it down and lay back on it, watching the clouds passing overhead. At length, feeling hungry, she betook herself to her sandwiches. The landlady had provided her quite generously and, once she had eaten her fill, she threw the rest of the bread out to the ducks and geese, who gobbled it up eagerly. It was an idyllic scene—almost calculated to ease her mind after....

The sun quite low in the west when she woke, realising that she had slept through most of the afternoon. She sat up, and discovered that she was being pestered by a horde of mosquitoes. Also it was getting colder. Quickly she wrapped herself in her coat, and retraced her steps through the woods.

The light was failing as she finally reached the inn. She quickly made her way to her room, and to her relief she found that the door bolt had been repaired and there was a key in the lock that worked. The door looked solidly made, and she hoped that this time it would resist any attempt to force entry. She would still have to brave the saloon, but she had thought up a plan that might deter the ostler.

Her bruise had faded, but she had a few mosquito bites on her face, which rather spoilt her looks and itched badly. Just something to put up with. She tentatively made her way down to the saloon. The ostler was nowhere to be seen, but he was sure to be around somewhere. She ordered a light supper: her appetite seemed somewhat diminished.

Sure enough, the ostler soon made his presence known as, once again, he seated his uncouth body beside hers. She had been hardly aware of his approach as she was looking the other way. She sighed.

“How you doing tonight, sweetheart? Ready for some more company?” said the ostler.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” said Stephanie, with as sweet an expression as she could muster.

“Not tonight? Why ‘not tonight’, may I ask?”

“It’s—well it’s just that—” Stephanie managed to force a blush. “Just that, now it’s _that_ time of the month, for me. The wrong time. You know what I mean...” Stephanie had never, of course, experienced the monthly blood, but she’d learnt enough from Rachel to know what it was like.

“Oh,” said the ostler, rather crestfallen. “Oh, I see. Well, when you’re up to it, again...”

“We’ll see. I’m off to Kentak tomorrow, but I’ll be back some time.”

The ostler, with surprising tact, got up and took his leave of her, to Stephanie’s immense relief. Perhaps, having worked off his lecherous passion, he was less interested in her. That sort of thing had happened in the Fringes. Nevertheless, once back in her room she took care to both lock and bolt the door before retiring. She fell asleep almost at once, and passed a peaceful night untroubled by nightmares.

At dawn the following morning she was up and, after a hurried breakfast, she paid her bill and was ready to board the coach to Kentak which, she’d been warned, would pass very early that morning. As soon as the coach arrived she sat herself in her seat and once again gave a big sigh of relief: she was now leaving this wretched Ashapi behind her, hoping never to return. If only she could forget the unpleasantness, and remember only the peaceful day by the lake! Luckily she was alone in the coach this time, and could, without embarrassment, give way to the tears that still consumed her from time to time. As the journey progressed she began to feel a bit calmer and collected, and was quite herself again, she felt, as the coach drew into Kentak that evening without incident.

Hastily disembarking, she made her way along the now-familiar streets to Jack and Adrian’s flat and knocked on the door. It was answered by Jack, who gaped at her in astonishment.

“Why, Stephanie! Whatever are you doing, back here? We thought you’d be halfway to Rigo by now. And where’s Mark? Has something happened? Is everything all right?”

“Yes: everything’s all right. Everything. Couldn’t be more than ‘all right’. And Mark’s fine. It’s just that—he’ll be coming along after me, in a few days. He had to stay behind. Yes, I’m fine, everyone’s fine, nothing—” Her voice cracked, and she burst into tears once again. Adrian appeared, equally perplexed, and they gently ushered her into the flat and sat her down.


	43. Stephanie's Tale

## Chapter 43

### Stephanie’s Tale

Jack and Adrian stood silently looking at one another, waiting for Stephanie to compose herself. They had offered her a glass of brandy, but she had waved it away. Several minutes had passed; she was still convulsed with sobs but they were becoming more intermittent, and between the sobs she was trying to force a smile.

Finally she stopped crying and appeared calmer.

“Is there anything you want to tell us?” asked Jack at length, as gently as he could. “About what you have been up to; about why you are here without Mark? Don’t feel you have to. If you want you can stop the night here, we’ll be glad to put you up—”

“ **NO! NO!** ” shrieked Stephanie. She paused, then continued, in a calmer voice, “Oh no, I’m so sorry, I mean **yes** , of course I’d be glad to stay here—if it’s no trouble. I’m so sorry about all the fuss I’ve caused, the hysterics: I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t stop myself...”

“We understand,” said Jack. “Just one question: is Mark all right? Really?”

“Yes, I already said so. Yes he **is** all right. It’s **not** about Mark. But please don’t ask any more.”

“Leave her be for now, Jack,” put in Adrian. “The girl’s had some sort of trouble, we can see that. Didn’t you notice the bruise on her cheek? But we won’t ask any questions tonight. Now, Stephanie, just one thing: have you eaten?”

“I had a bit of lunch when the coach stopped; nothing since then.”

“Oh, so you got here by coach did you? What happened with your horses?” put in Jack.

“No, Jack, I said, no questions! Stephanie, we don’t have much to offer you: just some bread, cheese, and ham—and a cup of warm milk or cocoa, whatever you prefer. Will that do? Then you can sleep in Michael’s room. We’ll make it up for you. You can even lock the door on us, if you feel insecure. We shan’t be offended!”

For the first time that day, Stephanie felt fairly relaxed. She felt she was among friends who could be trusted. She at once accepted their offer and after partaking of a modest meal, she retired to bed. She was awake for a long while, but eventually drifted off to sleep. This time, her dreams were about her times with David: once again she was sliding down the sandy slope, squealing with delight; they were fishing for shrimps in the river; they were playing around the rickety old beam-engine and making friends with its keeper Corky....

She awoke to a knocking on the door, got out of bed and opened it to find Adrian standing outside: he was bringing her some warm water. He told her that breakfast would soon be served, after which both he and Jack would be out for most of the day, but she was welcome to stay in the flat for the day, if that suited her. There were books on the shelves if she wanted to read. Stephanie thanked him, and was soon washed and dressed and seated at the breakfast table. Her bruise had almost gone by now.

“What do you do, the two of you, during the day?” she asked.

“We’re both in Law,” said Jack. “Adrian’s a junior attorney, I’m still studying at Law School to become one. So we’ll have to leave you on your own for most of the day. Adrian will probably be back first; some time in the afternoon, Ade?” Adrian nodded. “And I’ll be in about supper-time.”

“That’s fine, thanks. I’d like to explain things: I feel better now about telling you my story, if you want to hear it.”

“This evening, then, when we’re both here.”

After showing her where she could find food for lunch, they both took their leave of her.

Stephanie found little to occupy herself with during the day, but she waited patiently. She picked one or two books off the shelves, but they were very dull; and she was not very skilled at reading and writing. She had picked up a bit from her parents and David, and later from Rachel, but she came to realise how much she had missed out through not having a proper education. Hardly anyone back in the Fringes had been able to read...

That evening, when they had finished their supper, the three of them sat quietly around the fire, conversation on general matters having lapsed. There was an air of expectancy. Finally Stephanie braced herself, drew a breath and began:

“I suppose you want the story now. Well.... we didn’t set out in search of Rachel and Michael. Not yet. I didn’t want to, and I persuaded Mark to change his plans. We agreed that it would stand waiting for a while—a few days wouldn’t make much difference. And I had a more pressing reason. I wanted to find my parents—”

“Your _parents_?” interrupted Jack. “So—you aren’t in contact with them?”

“I wasn’t. I was separated from them when I was only a little girl. And after that, what with prison, and me being sent away—” Stephanie checked herself, realising that she’d said too much. Both the men were eyeing her curiously.

“All right, I’ll have to take you on trust. You’ve been very kind to me, I’m sure you’ll understand. Best if I show you—here.”

And with that she kicked off her left shoe, lifted the hem of her skirt, and peeled off the stocking.

“So what is it you expect us to—?” began Jack, but Adrian interrupted him with a hissed stage-whisper: _“Six!”_. Jack took a closer look at Stephanie’s foot and realised: he nodded, slightly embarrassed.

“David didn’t notice either, at first,” continued Stephanie, putting on her stocking and shoe once more. “Oh, you don’t know about David, perhaps. A childhood friend of mine, a very good friend, also one of Michael, Rachel and Mark’s little group. No—but he was the first person, besides my parents, who knew about me.”

“We understand,” replied Adrian. “And please believe us: we’re not the sort of guys who’d march you straight to the inspector! Trust me. So, I’m guessing you were hidden by your parents. But then you were caught?”

“Yes, my parents kept me, right up until I was ten. Then I was—seen; we tried to flee, but were caught: they were tried and sent to prison, while I was sent away to the—you know, to _that_ place. But I was rescued from there. Rescued by Michael, in fact, who brought me back to civilised parts.”

“That must have been an awful time for you. How long were you in the... Fringes?”

“About seven years. Yes it was horrible, but I survived. Nearly didn’t, though: I was hit by two arrows in the great battle. Michael saved my life...”

“That’s just like Michael! He deserves a medal. Yes, we know about the Fringes battle. I think we mentioned that when you were here, earlier,” said Adrian. “Over a hundred men, from the Waknuk and surrounding districts, most of them slaughtered. Terrible business.”

“Many of my people—the... _Fringes_ people—died too, in that battle.” This was the first time Stephanie had been able to bring herself to say the word ‘Fringes’ since departing Waknuk. She had to overcome her reluctance, if she was ever to be able to tell the full story.

“All right; we won’t ask you any more about that. But tell us what happened after you and Mark left us. That’s what we still want to know. Did you find your parents?” asked Adrian.

“Yes—at least, we found my mother. My father had since died. Mark did most of the enquiring. She’s now living at a place called Kamach, north of here.”

“Very sorry to hear about your father. Yes, I’ve heard of Kamach, though I haven’t been there. Where the women’s prison is, isn’t it?” said Jack, with a glance at Adrian. Adrian nodded. “But please go on.”

“Yes, we tracked her down, there, without too much trouble. At least, not too much trouble once we got to Kamach...” And with that Stephanie launched into a full account of their journey to Kamach, complete with all the upsets, the close call with the cougar, the loss of the horse; and then her return to Kentak alone. She only omitted what had happened at the inn at Ashapi.

“Well, that was quite an adventure, and no mistake!” said Adrian, when she had finished. “So we can expect Mark, and your mother (Martha I think you said her name is?) in a week’s time. Excellent! Though I don’t think we can put you all up here: we only have the one spare room.”

“Mother will have to stay at the inn, I think. Don’t worry: we can afford it. After a while she’ll have to return to Kamach—probably on her own. I’m trying not to think too far ahead. But we all agreed, me travelling together with Mother, especially in the Kamach district, wouldn’t be safe. People might remember—they might even recognise me...”

“Might be risky—I don’t know,” said Adrian. “I’ve appeared at one or two trials involving alleged Deviations, though of course your parents’ trial was long before my time. The sort of ‘moral rectitude’ practised at places like Waknuk, especially in Joseph Strorm’s time—well, that’s being questioned now. The torturing of those poor girls—I suppose they were two of Michael’s group—that left a lot of people uneasy, people who weren’t otherwise involved. And you may not know this, but there’s a considerably more enlightened leader of the Government, now, over in Rigo, who’s taken an interest; and she’s committed herself to clamping down on the more extreme cases of maltreatment of Deviants.”

“ ‘ _She’_!” exclaimed Stephanie. “You mean, it’s a _woman_ in charge of the Government?”

“Yes. Why shouldn’t there be? In Rigo at least, some folk at least are beginning to understand that women can be on an equal footing with men, as far as jobs and responsibilities go. Not so, yet, in Kentak: certainly not in the parts you and Mark came from! But not everyone agrees with that sentiment, not even in Rigo, sadly.

“Besides, I’ve been studying up common Deviations, part of my legal work. Your—condition—has a scientific name: it’s called ‘polydactyly’. Apparently that was a word that came from the Old People themselves: probably means something in one of their forgotten languages. It was very rare back then, but my argument is, if the Old People had a word for it, maybe it’s a syndrome that goes all the way back to before Tribulation: so not a Deviation at all! Because, according to Nicholson’s _Repentances_ at least, all known Deviations are deemed to have been **caused** by Tribulation and its aftermath. But it wouldn’t do to pin your hopes on that: the Church Party people would go into convulsions if it was suggested. And I don’t think my argument would stand up in Court.”

“Too late for me, anyway,” murmured Stephanie, sadly.

“We understand,” said Adrian. “But if you can bear it, will you tell us something about what made you so upset, last night? We did notice the bruise on your face. Were you hit by someone or something?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. No—perhaps I **do** want to talk about it. It seems easier, talking to you two, than it would have been talking to Mother, or to Mark. Oh, and did I tell you? Mark and I want to get married.”

“Splendid news! We could tell at once that Mark was head-over-heels for you, at any rate. I’m glad you’ve accepted him. But this thing you didn’t want to tell us—or him. Was it—to do with—being with a man?”

“NO! Yes! All right, it was. There was this horrible ugly brute of a young man, working at the inn at Ashapi. A beast. He made a pass at me. It was horrible. And he hit me.”

“Did he try to rape you?”

“He **did** rape me. No! I don’t know. Perhaps it wasn’t rape. You see, I **let** him do it. It was the only way. The only way I could keep my stockings on. Otherwise he might have ripped them off. He’d have seen.... Oh, why did I agree to travel alone? Mark **was** worried as I set off: I could see that. And Mother too, of course. And even one of the passengers in the coach warned me. But I thought I could take care of myself. I’d learned a lot, how to do that, in the Fringes. I was wrong...”

“Hmmm,” pondered Adrian. “In my book, what that man did to you, that’s still rape. But it would be difficult to prove: he’d use ‘consent’ as his defence. And you’d have to explain things in court. It’d all come out. Sorry, Stephanie, that’s me running away with my professional musings; I should have said, how truly sorry we are to hear this. As if you hadn’t had enough awful experiences.... But you’re right: being hauled before the inspector once more could have been worse.”

“Should I tell Mark? Or Mother?” Stephanie felt relieved that she had now shared her anguish. She only wished she could share it with a woman. Not Mother, however: perhaps neither of them was ready for that. More than anything she yearned to see Rachel once again... Rachel she could confide in. But Adrian, especially, was a real comfort.

There was a long pause. Eventually Adrian broke the silence.

“I think,” he said, hesitantly, “I think, your mother doesn’t need to know this. To her, you’re still a happy little ten-year-old child: unpleasant grown-up things like this don’t fit with her image of you. She’ll come to accept you as an adult, especially now that you and Mark are engaged. Does she know about that, by the way?”

“Yes.”

“How did she take it?”

“She wasn’t quite sure at first. She hesitated a while. But I think she’s been won over to the idea. She’s quite taken to Mark at any rate: thinks he could have been the son she never had. I was the only child.”

“That fits in with what I thought. I may never have met your mother, but I’ve a pretty good idea about her character. Part of my job it is, to judge people’s characters—especially the ones up in court!

“As to Mark—you’ve got to decide, but I think you’d be safe to tell him. He’d thank you for it. I’ve only met Mark briefly, but I read him as a dependable sort of chap—more dependable than Michael, whom I know well, who can be a bit headstrong! Knowledge like this won’t cloud his love for you...”

“He already knows I’ve been with other men. He’s easy with that.” She didn’t want to mention her fling with Michael explicitly, not even if Adrian had guessed it. There was no fooling Adrian, that was certain. But she felt at ease under his gentle questioning. Less so with Jack, but Jack had tactfully left almost all the talking to Adrian.

The conversation lapsed and they sat silent for a while, pondering much of what had been spoken. At length Stephanie got up and announced she wished to retire for the night. Acting on a sudden impulse, she rushed up to both Adrian and Jack in turn, embraced them, and planted passionate kisses on both cheeks. Both men were red-faced as she retreated to her room. As she lay down in bed she felt a great weight had been taken off her mind.


	44. Wedding Plans

## Chapter 44

### Wedding Plans

Stephanie passed a few anxious days waiting for the next coach to arrive from Ashapi, and the hoped-for arrival of Mark and Martha. Both Adrian and Jack did their best to reassure her—but there was of course no certainty that things had gone to plan back in Kamach. In the meantime, Adrian urged her to occupy herself as best she could while they were away at work. She offered to do some shopping for them, and also to help with the housework and cooking; and she offered to contribute a share of the expenses and the rent. The others were reluctant to accept this last, but she insisted that she and Mark had plenty of money—mostly due to the generous donation from Amelia, Rachel’s mother, back in Waknuk, as she explained to them. So in the end they accepted gratefully: as Jack explained, a Law student gets very little allowance and even Adrian, as a junior, wasn’t very well paid.

At length the day came when the coach from Rigo, passing through Ashapi, was due to arrive, and that evening Stephanie and Jack were standing anxiously at the inn, looking down the road for any sign of its approach. It was dark and raining heavily, and although they were able to take shelter from the worst of it, they were still shivering and wet through by the time they heard the welcome sound of many hooves pounding and splashing their way along the wet road.

The coach drew to a halt in front of the inn, and sure enough a small figure alighted, closely followed by someone rather larger. Martha looked around in confusion for a moment: then she espied Stephanie sheltering under the inn’s doorway, rushed up to her and clasped her in an almost suffocating hug. It was quite a while before she released her into the arms of Mark who kissed her fervently time and time again. Eventually, Stephanie was able to get her breath back and introduce Martha to Jack, explaining how he and Adrian had sheltered her.

After a brief discussion, they decided to book a room for Martha at the inn, then they would all make haste as best they could to the flat where Adrian had a hot supper waiting. Mark and Stephanie could continue to stay in Michael’s old room at the flat. As to ongoing plans—none of them felt able to decide about that for the time being. Luckily the rain was easing as they hurried back to the flat, where they were welcomed by Adrian and sat down to a convivial supper.

Mark and Martha, between them, explained how they had fared at Kamach. They had sold some of Martha’s hens to a friend of hers who was a fellow egg-rearer; but some of them had had to go to the butcher’s—which Martha was a bit upset about. Mark had, not without some misgivings, ridden back to their campsite at the shepherd’s hut, and collected most of their belongings—but left the dead horse’s tack which was too much to carry. He refused to say anything about the state of the dead horse’s remains—for which Stephanie was thankful. Once back at Kamach, the remaining horse was quite easy to dispose of: a local hunter was glad to take it on once he had assured himself of its merits. And Martha’s landlord was fairly easy about her absence: said he would charge only a portion of her rent until either she returned or he found a new tenant.

The conversation lapsed for a while: then Mark abruptly announced:

“Stephanie and I are going to get married: and I’d like that to be as soon as maybe: yes, Steph?” Stephanie nodded. “But besides,” continued Mark, “I really ought to look up my mother back at the farm, before we decide anything else. Yes she knew I was going on a long journey, she won’t be worrying about me yet—but it’s been quite a while now and since we’re back in the area... What she doesn’t know, of course, is about Stephanie and me. I really ought to present her to Mother before the wedding.”

“Why, congratulations to the two of you!” said Adrian, echoed by Jack. He continued, “Yes, introducing Stephanie to your mother would be the right and proper thing to do, Mark, certainly. Would you want to be married here, in Kentak?”

“That was our idea,” replied Stephanie. “Safer than Kamach, at any rate. No-one’s going to recognise Mother, nor me, not here. Something quiet and simple, no guests. Except you, Jack and Adrian, of course. I haven’t any family apart from Mother, and Mark’s mother lives on a farm out in the wilds. The last thing I want is lots of well-meaning guests patting me on the back and asking when we’re going to start a family. That will hurt: we all know there won’t **be** any—”

“ _Steph!_ ” hissed Mark, glancing at Adrian and Jack.

“It’s all right,” Stephanie reassured him. “They already know. All about me, that is. My history: my _feet_. And it’s all right with them, don’t worry, Mother. We have no secrets among ourselves.” As she said it, her mind went back to the horror at Ashapi for a second, and she anxiously glanced at Mark. Not yet, she thought—not while Mother’s present. Maybe not ever...

“Well,” said Martha. “Any wedding will be a joy to me, however simple, just so long as it involves my darling Sophie. Sorry, ‘Stephanie’. But Mark’s parents will surely have to be there, and they’ll ask about grandchildren.”

“Yes,” agreed Mark. “I don’t have a father any more, but I have two older sisters, both married, and Mother’s already got three grandchildren, and another on the way. So we won’t tell her about Stephanie’s—problem. There’s no need for her to know. But we need to prepare a few things. She can’t be ‘Stephanie Wender’, obviously, not even in Kentak. Nor can we have the same surname, as on the false papers you still have. We’ll have to forge another set.”

“I’ve already booked myself into the inn as ‘Mrs Wender’,” said Martha. “I couldn’t really do otherwise. But I’m here quite legitimately: I’ve got a pass from the Sheriff back at Kamach. I can show that to anyone who asks. It’s being seen with you two that’s risky.”

“All right then,” said Mark. “We’ll sort out the documents, then go and enquire at the church, and fix up the wedding. You sleep at the inn, Martha, in the meantime. Then we’ll all set out for my mother’s farm. It’s about twenty-five miles away. It’s best if you come with us, Martha, if we can manage that safely. I forgot to ask, can you ride?”

“Why, I haven’t ridden a horse since Sophie was born. John used to ride a lot, on his hunting trips, but he didn’t take me very often, and not after this baby came. I doubt if I’d be much use on one.”

“Then we’ll have to hire a carriage of some sort. Don’t worry, we’ll sort something out.”

There was a long pause. Then a thought suddenly occurred to Martha, as she surveyed the gathered company. “Are either of you two thinking of getting married? Any sweethearts?” she asked quite innocently, looking at Adrian and Jack.

“Er, no, not exactly,” said Jack, hesitantly. But Adrian took up the response.

“We’re in a sort of—partnership, already. The two of us. Not everyone approves, so keep quiet about it.”

“You mean you’re—”

“Homosexual. That’s the word. Yes we are. That **doesn’t** make us Deviants; plenty of the Old People were like us too, though the Church Party will deny it of course. There’s even a horrible word about our kind of people in the Bible: ‘abomination’. The same word as the Church people use for Deviants. So we have to be discreet. If we were found out, we’d probably get the same treatment as human Deviations do. In fact, an inspector would class us as Blasphemies, if he ever knew.”

Mark was visibly perturbed at this revelation, it was something utterly new to him. But Stephanie seemed quite relaxed, and she spoke out.

“Don’t worry about me, I know all about it. Happened quite a lot in the Fringes. Perhaps it was people like you who _were_ caught and sent there? And don’t look so uncomfortable, Mark—nor you, Mother. These are good people, they’ve helped us tremendously, and their—difference—bestows a sort of kinship with us, doesn’t it?”

Mark had to agree. Martha hesitated for a long time, but then she too nodded her head.

With that, Jack offered to escort Martha back to the inn, and promised to call for her early the next morning. As they left the flat Martha took Jack’s arm. Evidently if she’d felt any revulsion, it was ebbing away.

Mark was still feeling bemused about Jack and Adrian’s revelation, as he followed Stephanie into their bedroom, but the thought ‘ _they’re different, like we’re different: just different in a ‘different’ way_ ’ was some comfort to him. He quickly undressed, got into bed, and watched eagerly as Stephanie took off her clothes and slipped into bed beside him. For a minute or two they cuddled and caressed each other: then, just as Mark’s ardour was becoming more urgent, Stephanie gave a sigh, rolled away from him, sat up and reached for her nightgown which she pulled over herself.

“Sorry, my dear. Not in the mood tonight,” she murmured.

“Trouble, my love?”

“Now we’re definitely getting married, I’d like to leave it till then.”

“But we’ve already made love. And I’ve been looking forward all through the journey here.”

“I know. Sorry, but no. All I can say is, ‘look forward’ for a bit longer. _Please_ bear with me.” With that Stephanie lay back in bed and said no more. She couldn’t yet bring herself to tell Mark about Ashapi. Just letting Mark see her naked—even if only for an instant—had been hard enough.

Mark sighed. He realised that he might be expecting too much of Stephanie, and the last thing he wished was to upset her. He could see that something was troubling her, but decided not to press her. He put on his own nightshirt and was soon asleep.

The next morning, after breakfast, Mark, Stephanie and Martha sat down and set to work creating a new identity tag for Stephanie, with a new surname and stating her birthplace as a tiny village about ten miles north of Mark’s farm. “That makes it plausible,” he commented. “I just hope no-one checks out that village: it’s difficult to get to, especially in winter. Should work.”

Martha took a hand at the actual forging of the tag, saying she had had quite a lot of practice back when Sophie was a child. In the end, after several failed attempts which they had to throw out, they managed to achieve a passable forgery.

Then Stephanie and Mark took themselves to a nearby church, as recommended by Jack and Adrian who had given them directions. They were disappointed to find it unlocked but deserted, with no indication as to how the priest might be contacted.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. Let’s come back tomorrow and take part in the service: then we can catch hold of the priest as we come out,” suggested Mark. “We ought to spend today looking for smart clothes, anyway.”

Stephanie had never been to church: when she was a child it would have been too risky for her parents to take her, and they were not churchgoers in any case. She was a bit nervous about this but Mark reassured her. It seemed the best course to take.

So it was the following morning that the young couple presented themselves at the church door and took their places among the small congregation. Several other worshippers glanced at the strangers curiously: one elderly lady sitting next to them gave them an enquiring look, so they explained, plausibly, that they were on a short visit to Kentak. Mark whispered to Stephanie that she didn’t have to do anything: just kneel when the others knelt, sing when they sang, and pray when they prayed. She didn’t need to go up to the priest to take the sacrament, although Mark would.

After the service they asked to have a private word with the priest, and he readily agreed, and took them into the sacristy. They explained their purpose in a few words.

The priest was a small elderly man with thin grey hair, a wrinkled face with bushy eyebrows and a short grey beard. But there was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked the young couple up and down, and he smiled.

“So you want to tie the knot, do you, my children? And you want it to happen right here, in my church? How did you come to choose this one, if I may ask?”

“Oh, we like it here in Kentak, and we’re staying with friends here—until the wedding,” replied Mark.

“I trust that you have not anticipated the sacred bonds of matrimony, whilst you have been staying here?”

“Oh no,” said Stephanie. “We’ve been very good.” _Well_ , she thought, _that was in part true!_

“I noticed that you didn’t take communion, Stephanie,” continued the priest. “Please allow me to enquire of your heart: just a few words. Have you been Confirmed?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Neither of my parents went to church much.” _Which was also true._

“Where are your parents now, Stephanie?”

They had rehearsed carefully for this. “Both my parents are dead,” she said, calmly. “Since I was a child. I was looked after by my guardian, an old friend of my father, who also happens to be Mark’s uncle. That’s how Mark and I came to meet.”

“But you are both of age, I trust?” Both Mark and Sophie nodded. The priest looked over Stephanie a bit curiously, but if he doubted them, he said nothing. Instead he asked:

“And both of you are absolutely sure of one another? That your love will endure? Remember that marriage is a sacred commitment for life: it is not to be entered upon lightly. You are both still quite young. Search your hearts and imagine what your feelings will be to one another, years hence. I assume you have known each other since childhood, but that is no guarantee of a smooth path through adulthood.”

“Oh no,” said Mark, “we only met for the first time a few months ago. In fact I never really knew I had an uncle until recently.”

They watched the priest’s expression carefully, but they had the feeling he had been won over. “Hmmm...” he said, with a wink, “this is somewhat unusual, but I think I can see the way forward. Come and see me in the Presbytery tomorrow, and we’ll talk about arrangements.” He wrote out the address for them.

With that, he bid them farewell. Back at the flat, Adrian and Jack congratulated them, while Martha was overcome by the thought of her little Sophie about to become a married woman, and shed not a few tears over it.

“We knew it would work out all right,” said Adrian. “We know that old priest—and what’s more, he knows about _us_ —Jack and me—and he’s fully understanding. Just imagine if you’d tried to get married in Waknuk church, or any other church out in the backwoods! Our priest knows that, too: he knows that’s why you came to him. He’ll be thinking it’s maybe an elopement, but he’s understanding about that too.”

A thought occurred to Stephanie, just then. “About—the two of you. Does Michael know?”

“We think he guessed—and he’s well educated so he understands it better,” said Adrian. “We never spoke about our relationship. Times have been dangerous—but maybe enlightenment is on the way...”

The next day Stephanie and Mark returned to the priest, and it was all arranged: the wedding was fixed for three weeks hence. They agreed that it would be a very small ceremony, with only a few guests present, and no white wedding dress or other special preparations. All that remained, therefore, was to collect the smart clothes they had ordered, and go to see Mark’s mother and see how she reacted to their announcement.


	45. Waknuk Again, and Beyond

## Chapter 45

### Waknuk Again, and Beyond

The preparations for visiting Mark’s mother took a few days. Stephanie, especially, did not want to leave Martha in Kentak (although Adrian and Jack were quite willing to accommodate her); besides: Martha, having endured a week’s separation from her daughter only days after their reunion, flatly refused to be parted from her again, any time soon. Since Martha could not ride, Mark had to search all around Kentak for a suitable carriage they could hire. He had no success until he thought of asking the old priest. The latter thought for a while, and then mentioned one of his flock who kept a livery stable and might have a carriage for hire. Mark went to the stables and managed to secure a week’s hire of a two-wheeled governess cart drawn by one horse, which he thought would be adequate to convey the three of them to his mother’s farm and back again.

Mark was painfully aware that his reserves of cash were fast diminishing, with all this expense. Oh well, they’d have to address that problem when it came.

It was a dreary, overcast, and chilly day with a slight fall of sleet when they set out early in the morning, but Mark felt they could not delay any longer. Martha was well wrapped up in a large cloak but still seemed to be feeling the cold; however, she responded to all Stephanie’s enquiries with “I’m quite all right.”

Although Mark had originally wanted to cut across country to his farm, following rough tracks which he was familiar with, he knew this would be impossible with the cart. So they had no option but to travel via Waknuk—with all the danger that posed. There was little risk that Martha would be recognised, and Stephanie had shown herself very little during her stay at Rachel’s farm—but Mark might well be noticed by an acquaintance. He pulled a thick woollen hat well down over his brow and wrapped his face in a scarf as he drove, and hoped for the best. They should reach his mother’s farm before nightfall, if all went well.

As they approached the familiar farmland surrounding Waknuk, Mark surveyed the fields on either side with his farmer’s eyes. Most had been ploughed and winter crops already sown, so he guessed that Waknuk was still prospering. They passed by the Strorms’ farm, now owned by Angus Morton, and showing signs of new buildings going up, and were drawing near to what had been Rachel’s farm—also sold now—when they saw a horseman riding towards them.

Mark nodded and gave a brief ‘good morning’ as they passed, but the man gazed intently into the carriage, apparently with some curiosity, before riding on. They had only passed him by some hundred yards when he reined in his horse and abruptly turned around. Stephanie turned to Mark in a sudden panic.

“It’s the inspector! The inspector for Waknuk. I’m sure of it. And I think he’s recognised one of us. Oh no! what are we going to do?”

“Whatever we do, we can’t outrun him,” said Mark. “Not in this cart at any rate. Try to look inconspicuous, both of you, if you can: don’t look towards him. I’ll do the talking. Maybe I can bluff our way out.” He reined in the horse.

In a few seconds the inspector was alongside them and had dismounted. All of them now recognised him, although he appeared to have aged several years in the past few months. He was stooped and his hair was greying. Mark was starting to ask him what was his business, but the inspector ignored him. Instead he was closely scrutinising the two female occupants, for all they could do to avoid his gaze. In a little while a smug, satisfied smile spread across his face.

“Well—if I’m not mistaken, it’s Mrs Wender, isn’t it? And—can it possibly be your little Sophie next to you? Sophie, but all grown up?—no, don’t try to hide your face, my dear, I’m sure I’m not wrong: I recognise you. You **do** look so like your mother...”

The three of them were frozen, too terrified to speak.

“Well, well, we’re going to have to have a little chat, aren’t we? Could you please follow me.”

Mark knew that it was useless to try and evade the inspector. With a heavy heart he turned the cart around and followed the inspector. Stephanie and Martha were now both in tears, clutching each other. Probably for the best, thought Mark: better than them going into a blind panic and trying to flee.

Once at the inspector’s house, they were shown into his office and asked to sit down in front of his desk. Stephanie had calmed down a bit, but Martha began to scream out incoherently: that he had no right to detain them in this way, that she had done her time, that they were only passing through Waknuk anyway—but the inspector gently hushed her. Once she had stopped sobbing, he began to state his case:

“Please, listen, there’s no need to panic. You present me with a strange dilemma. Please calm down all of you, and let me explain. My job, as you know, is to enforce the Law as regards Deviations—and I like to believe I’ve been fulfilling my duty conscientiously, for the fifteen years I’ve been in this office. Indeed, the Deviation rate in Waknuk, with a few exceptions, has been improving steadily, year on year, during my time here. But there’s still a lot of resentment from local folk.

“I expect you heard about the terrible disaster that befell this district last year, when we lost so many of our best men. The story must have gone all over Labrador. Out on a sortie into Fringes territory, massacred by Fringes folk, as I understand it. Sophie, perhaps you can tell me more?”

“I heard about it,” said Sophie, hesitantly. “I wasn’t involved, though.”

“So, in that case, perhaps you can tell me how you come to be here, and not in the Fringes. Because, if you’ll forgive me, you don’t look in the least like a Fringes dweller—and I’ve come across many of those, fugitives trying to escape to civilised parts. If I hadn’t recognised you, Mrs Wender, I’d never have believed it was Sophie. So how about a little explanation?”

Mark had already been silently preparing his answer while the inspector was talking, and he now cut in quickly, hoping that Stephanie wouldn’t interrupt. “I met her whilst I was on a hunting trip. I live to the northwest of here, not far from Wild country. And I’d gone quite a long way out west when I ran into her. She was out hunting too—on foot. She’d strayed quite a long way from the Fringes, and had got lost.” As he said this, Mark watched Stephanie out of the corner of his eye, and she gave a brief nod. “Anyway, I took her up and she more or less stayed with me after that. And now we’re planning to get married.”

“Married, is it? Well well well! But you did undergo your sterilisation, before being dropped in the fringes, Sophie? Unless the information they passed on to me from Kentak and Rigo was incorrect?”

“Yes, I did,” muttered Stephanie, with an anguished look on her face.

“So, I must consider, what am I going to do?” continued the inspector. “My job is to root out Deviations when they’re first discovered, and make sure they’re properly dealt with. You **have** been dealt with, Sophie, as far as I’m concerned. The Law doesn’t say anything about what to do with returned Fringes dwellers, provided they don’t rob civilised folk or otherwise make a nuisance of themselves. Indeed I’ve never heard of a case like this, where someone from the Fringes has acquired the look of a civilised person once again. And the fact that you’re planning to get married, to a civilised husband too, stands in your favour.

“If I were to take action against you, there’s no precedent: I’d first have to seek advice from my superiors in Rigo. Quite frankly, I’m not minded to do that. I may get into trouble from some quarters, but I’ve lived with that for a long time. Especially with Strorm.... And some things that have happened! Like a case in a neighbouring district last year: two young women, not much older than you, Sophie. And connected with that, a case of arson, an entire farm burnt down. The police were sent for, from Rigo. I won’t go into details, but there was a lot of bad feeling after that—from people on both sides of the argument. Some of it directed against me. I got some nasty letters. I’ve been feeling uncomfortable, I’m not shy of admitting to you. Beset on all sides.

“So I think I’m going to let you go: send you on your way. It may be the wrong decision for me, but there it is, I’m doing it with a clear conscience. You’ve had your ‘treatment’, Sophie—and you’ve served out your sentence, Mrs Wender, along with your husband. Where is he, by the way?”

“He died, soon after leaving gaol,” said Stephanie, laconically.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” continued the inspector. “Yes, I know he committed a serious offence, as did you, Mrs Wender. But I’m still truly sorry to hear about that. And after he served out his sentence, too! Anyway, my conclusion is to forget this meeting ever took place—and to ask you to leave Waknuk as soon as possible, and not to come here again. I want you as far away from my district as possible. If someone were to find out about you, Sophie, I’d get the blame.”

“We weren’t planning to stay in Waknuk, anyway,” said Mark, taking up the story once again. “We’re heading for my mother’s farm which is about nine miles away—and I hope we can still reach there before it gets dark. But we shall have to pass through Waknuk on our return.”

“All right then—but don’t linger if you pass this way, and don’t let me see you again.” With that, the inspector bade them farewell and they once again set out in the cart.

Once they were out of earshot, Mark let out a long sigh. “Well, would you believe it? He’s not the inspector of old, is he? Times must have hit him really hard. I’d have thought, with Strorm gone, he’d have an easier time. David told us all about the rows they used to have.”

“He was talking about Sally and Katherine, wasn’t he?” said Stephanie. “When he mentioned those ‘two young women’. The ones who were caught, and who Michael went looking for. You told me all about them. Are we still thinking they’re dead?”

“I think we are,” said Mark, sadly. “Michael was fairly certain of it. I’m surprised the inspector brought up that affair—even though he stopped himself before saying too much! But it’s a comfort to know, other people, not just us, were upset about what happened. Things may be changing—especially with old Strorm out of the picture. And I think our inspector is changing his attitude too. He certainly seems more communicative.

“But I’m wondering. Should we be trusting this ‘new’ inspector? Is this more friendly, more conciliatory attitude a front—could he be deceiving us, setting a trap? He might be having us followed: hoping we’ll lead him onto something. Some ‘suspicious’ people perhaps. We’d better be careful: better not trust him blindly. And I think we need to exercise caution when we return this way.”

“I agree,” replied Stephanie. “But he seemed pretty genuine. And things may indeed be changing all across Labrador,” she added, with a smile on her face. “Did Adrian tell you about there being a woman in charge of the Government, over in Rigo?”

“A _woman_?” exclaimed Martha, breaking her silence for the first time. “Surely that can’t be—it’s _never_ woman’s work, that!”

“Well, it is, Mother. Things are changing, and time you got used to it.”

With that, the conversation lapsed. The weather had improved: it was now dry and fairly warm, and they made good progress without further incident. It was just beginning to get dark, and colder again, when Mark’s farm, which stood in an isolated position right on the edge of a large forest, loomed up before them.

As they drew their cart to a halt in the yard and alighted, a young man appeared with a lantern: one of Mark’s brothers-in-law. Upon recognising Mark, he called into the farmhouse for Mark’s mother to come out. In a minute she emerged, wrapped in a shawl, a very short, somewhat plump dark-haired woman in her late fifties. On seeing Mark, she smiled broadly and embraced him in a tight hug.

“Oh, Mark,” she exclaimed, “how nice of you to call on us. I’d been expecting you to be away for months. And how are you? Are you quite well? But come in, come into the warm. And your friends too...”

“I’m sorry, Mother, I should have introduced you. This is Stephanie—I’ve told you about her, of course. Used to help out at Amelia’s farm. And this is her mother, Martha.”

“Pleased to meet you, Stephanie and Martha. Oh, call me Margaret please! No formalities here.” With that, they were soon seated round the fire in the big farm kitchen.


	46. At Mark’s Farm

## Chapter 46

### At Mark’s Farm

Dinner was already cooking in the kitchen, but Margaret busied herself for several minutes in increasing the amount of food so as to cater for her visitors. Finally she sat down with them and launched into some questions.

“So what have you been up to, Mark? Did you go in search of Rachel, Amelia’s girl, and her young man, as you promised? And did you go all the way to Rigo?”

“Not quite,” answered Mark. “We, Stephanie and I, I mean, had another mission, which was to go in search of Stephanie’s family, whom she’d lost touch with. As you can see, we were successful: here is Martha to prove it. Stephanie’s father had passed away in the meantime, and she has no brothers or sisters, so it’s just Martha.”

“Sorry to hear about your husband, Martha. Yes, we’re three merry widows, it seems, you and me—and Amelia, who lost her man only last year. You know she sold her farm and came to stay with her sister, not too far from here. You must call on her, Mark.”

“We shall do that,” said Mark, “although I’m afraid we haven’t any positive news about Rachel and Michael. We did learn that they set off for Rigo—as we expected—but they may have had some trouble on the way.”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble? Was it the same trouble that caused them to take French leave like that, just after the funeral?”

“Yes it was,” said Mark, “but I can’t say any more than that. Michael has—enemies. Please don’t ask me more. But I can tell you, he and Rachel got married.”

“Splendid! I’ve met Michael, but I can’t say I know him very well. But what I saw of him, I liked a lot. I’m sure he’ll make Rachel an excellent husband.”

“Which leads us to our own news,” put in Stephanie. “Mark and I are also going to get married soon.”

For a moment, Margaret was dumbstruck. Finally she spoke. “Well, this is some news, indeed, and all very sudden. But Stephanie, although I’ve heard about you, we’ve only just met, and I know so little about you. For a start: how old are you?”

“Eighteen,” admitted Stephanie.

“Very young,” continued Margaret. “Not of age yet—but people are marrying younger all the time, aren’t they? I believe young Rachel is not yet eighteen, and she’s married, so you tell me. Let’s hope that marriage goes well. I suppose Martha has already consented—” Martha nodded “and you want me to give my consent, Mark?”

“Yes, Mother, that would be wonderful. Of course, I don’t need your consent, I’m of age, but it would be great if you would.”

Margaret fell silent for a while. “I’ll have to think about it. But meanwhile, we’re about to have dinner, so do join us. We can talk about things afterwards.”

As she was saying this, the rest of Mark’s family had joined them in the kitchen: his elder sisters Monica, with her husband Theo (the one who had met them in the yard), and Marjorie with her husband Dennis, plus three small boys. They were soon seated at the big table tucking into a generous meal of stewed venison and greens.

“We often have game on the menu, here,” explained Mark, noticing both Martha and Stephanie eyeing their plates suspiciously. “It’s a good source of meat for us, and we keep only a few livestock. These two gentlemen are both excellent hunters—”

“So are you, Mark,” put in Theo. “Don’t be so modest!”

“All right. But I must point out that Stephanie here is pretty skilled with the bow, too. She can certainly look after herself. In fact I’d like her to join me on a hunting trip, one of these days...”

“If you do indeed marry Mark, my girl,” said Margaret, looking at Stephanie, “and if you decide to live here, I’ve other plans for you—if you’ll forgive my saying so. There’s plenty of work to be done right here on the farm. And besides, I’m still waiting for a granddaughter. These two tiny tots of mine here,” waving her hand lazily at Monica and Marjorie, who were both in their late twenties, “they’ve only produced boys, and I’d love there to be a little girl—but I’m not going to live on for ever. It would be nice if you bucked the trend...”

Stephanie had by now learnt to maintain her composure through this distressing reminder of her affliction, and she kept a calm expression for a moment, certain that Margaret wouldn’t notice anything. Then she broke into a grin and nodded vaguely. The three boys seated at the table all scowled: evidently none of them cared for a girl as a cousin.

The conversation turned to more local news around the farm. Dennis gave an account of how he had tracked down and shot the deer which was now serving as their dinner. He also mentioned the encounter they’d had with a bear which had come right into the yard. This prompted Mark to relate their close call with the cougar, and with the mystery beast that had led to the loss of their horse. Stephanie felt relieved that the conversation had been steered away from the matter of raising a family...

After dinner, with Mark’s sisters having announced bedtime for the children and departed along with Theo and Dennis, Margaret quizzed Stephanie long and hard about her background. She was somewhat disappointed to learn that Stephanie had had little or no education, but at least she wasn’t suspicious. In that part of Labrador, many children brought up in remote areas never got the chance of any schooling. And at least Stephanie could read and write, and had plenty of knowledge of the affairs of Labrador: she was clearly quite intelligent despite her lack of tutoring.

So Margaret felt satisfied and left off the hard questioning, much to Stephanie’s relief. She had already put out a plausible story about how she had been brought up on a remote farmstead near Kamach, far to the north, and had learnt to hunt from her father (of course concealing the fact that she had learnt this in the Fringes). Margaret was a bit doubtful about having a girl with hunting prowess in the family, but let that rest.

Nevertheless both Mark and Stephanie were very relieved when the time came to retire. Margaret announced that Martha could sleep in the spare room which used to be shared by Marjorie and Monica, while Stephanie had Mark’s old bedroom: Mark, meanwhile, must make do on a sofa in the parlour. Catching the querying and slightly mischievous look in Mark’s eyes, Margaret continued: “Yes indeed: we’ll have none of your funny business in my house, Mark, thank you very much! At least, not until you’re properly and decently married in Church.”

“But—”

“No ‘but’s. This is my house and I set the rules. I’ve just given my consent to the marriage, haven’t I? So be on your best behaviour, before I change my mind.”

Mark realised that there was nothing for it but to wrap himself in a blanket and settle down as best he could on the rather cold and uncomfortable sofa. As the rest of the company turned in, the house fell quiet, but he found it hard to sleep. He could not have dozed off for more than twenty minutes when he was awakened by a light touch on his shoulder. It was Stephanie, shivering in her nightgown.

“Please come to me, Mark, dear,” she whispered. “I’m lonely, and it’s cold in the bed...”

Mark’s heart gave a leap as he slipped off the couch and expectantly followed Stephanie into the bedroom, where she quickly slipped into bed, still in her nightgown and stockings. Mark began to undress—but he was in for a disappointment.

“No, Mark, not that. I’m sorry. I just have something I need to tell you. Come into bed as you are.”

Mark shrugged and lay down next to Stephanie, and they cuddled each other until they’d warmed up a bit. Mark waited a while for Stephanie to speak, but she was silent, so he whispered tentatively: “What is it, my love? Something’s bothering you: I could tell that the moment I joined up with you in Kentak. Any problem with Adrian or Jack? Or was it on the journey? Did something happen?”

“Yes—something did happen, on the journey—I don’t know how to tell you...”

“Was it someone on the coach? Or at the inn—the one at Ashapi? Did someone harm you?”

“Yes—at the inn. There was a young man—a really unpleasant young man—he made a pass at me as I was having dinner. And then...”

“And then what?”

“He tried to break into my room. No, not ‘tried’: he **did** break into my room.”

“My God! Were you assaulted?”

“He _raped_ me.”

“He _what_! Who is he?” Mark had raised his voice above a whisper now, in his fury. “Damn it, I’ll get my hands on him, I’ll bloody **kill** him...!”

“Mark, darling, please try to understand. It wasn’t quite like that. You see, I _let_ him do it...”

Mark froze. Then he pushed his way out of the bed and stood up, putting on the rest of his clothes while he stared at Stephanie, who was lying huddled beneath the blankets. The words came out of him, slowly, punctuated by sharp breaths:

“ _You—let—him—do—it!_ You just let him have his way with you, like the little whore you are! Not out of my sight a day, but you must have it off with whoever.... You’re all the same. Why did I ever agree to marry a Fringe-bitch?” He sank into a chair and cupped his face in his hands.

“No, Mark, my darling, _**please**_ try to understand!” moaned Stephanie through her tears.

“What can there possibly be that I need to understand?”

“Just hear me out. It was the only thing. I was wearing those thick stockings I took with me—remember? As a precaution. If I’d struggled against him, he’d have ripped my stockings off, along with everything else. And then what? All lost! Don’t you _see_?”

Mark did see. He was utterly silenced, in his confusion. He could barely suppress his sobs, as he sat huddled in the chair. Stephanie’s eyes were also still wet with tears. They remained in this state for a long time.

At last Mark came over to the bed, leant over Stephanie and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She didn’t resist. Then he went back to whispering.

“Oh Steph, darling, I’m so awfully sorry! Those horrible things I said to you. I just didn’t understand—I didn’t realise. So much in love with you, I forget little things. Like your little _difference_ —like the danger it poses for you. Will I ever be forgiven?”

“Of course you are! It was always going to be difficult to explain this to you—for both of us.”

“I’ll never be able to unsay those nasty words I said.” Mark paused for a while, letting the implication sink in. Then he composed himself and continued: “I blame myself, as much as anyone, for letting you travel alone. But I still want to go after the man who did it. If he hadn’t molested you, none of this would have happened. So who was he: do you know?”

“I never heard his name,” admitted Stephanie. “He was—sort of—the ostler: he took charge of the horses when the coach arrived. He stank of horse and stable-manure, and his own sweat. I like horses, but his stink wasn’t the smell of horses I know. It was different—nauseating.”

“Well, we’ll see what happens if we ever get to Ashapi. If I get hold of him, I won’t let the matter rest,” said Mark. “Now, can I come into bed?”

“You can come in for a while, to warm me up—but keep your pants on. Let’s keep to your Mother’s orders. Don’t worry—it’s just for now. And make sure you’re back on the sofa before she wakes up...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the names of Mark's two sisters, Monica and Marjorie, and their husbands Theo and Dennis, have been unashamedly picked from Nevil Shute's 1948 novel _No Highway_ \- much of which is set in Labrador and Newfoundland.


End file.
